Invasion (Arrivals from the Dark, Book 1)
by ChronoLegion
Summary: Humanity is just beginning to explore the far reaches of the Solar System when a threat from a remote corner of the galaxy arrives on our doorstep. A fighter pilot finds himself in a unique position to try and save Earth from subjugation, with the help of a beautiful alien girl and a mysterious stranger.
1. Prologue

_This is a fan translation of _Invasion_ (Вторжение) __by Mikhail Akhmanov, currently only available in Russian and, because of the author's passing in 2019, unlikely to ever be published in English. This is the first book in a six-book series called _Arrivals from the Dark_ (Пришедшие из мрака), which also has a six-book spin-off series called _Trevelyan's Mission_ (Миссия Тревельяна)._

_I claim no rights to the contents herein._

* * *

**INVASION  
Prologue**

Earth, Moscow, Kremlin. June 3, 2088

The recording of the events was short - about six minutes from the beginning of the attack to the final salvo, which destroyed the medium cruiser _Tiburon_. On the enormous screen taking up an entire wall of the office, ships were exploding, caught by a beam strike, fighters were burning up like moths in a flame, clouds of sizzling gas were swirling, thin, impossibly bright plasma bursts were ripping apart armor with predatory tenacity. The backdrop for this picture was darkness, lit up by the flickering of indifferent stars.

After watching the recording, the man sitting in front of the screen raised his hand and snapped his fingers imperatively. The video started over, slower, with commentary from the analysts, who were pointing out specific, gloomiest parts. The first part, twenty-six seconds long, preceded the combat: a giant starship, gleaming in the light of the faraway Sol, nine human cruisers surrounding the alien, and angular objects taking off from its surface appeared on the screen. Ten, twenty, thirty... like machine-gun fire. The combat machines fanned out above and below the ecliptic, covering the starship's cylindrical hull. It was huge, based on the scale grid appearing next to it, five or six kilometers in length. Not even the largest bases and orbital stations built within the last half-a-century could compete with it.

Suddenly, the ring of the human cruisers surrounding the alien began to move, spinning, dropping long fiery jets; the engine exhaust reached for the stars, eclipsing their weak, timid radiance. This carousel rapidly gained speed, and the ships spinning in it were obviously preparing for battle: turrets rotated, barrels of plasma throwers and swarms quivered in a predatory manner, metal gleamed in the dark channels of missile tubes. An instant later, a flock of silver darts separated from the _Sakhalin_, the largest raider in the flotilla, and dashed out into the darkness. Immediately after that, still rotating, the _Pamir_ and the _Lancaster_ launched missiles, followed by the _Sydney_ and five other cruisers. One volley, two, three… They were not firing at the alien machines but at their starship, and the target was so large that they simply could not miss.

The missile volleys signaled the beginning of the attack, while the fighter strike was the continuation. Hatches opened in the sides of the ships, and nimble Vultures and Kites dashed out into the void; their dense cloud, seemingly shapeless at first, threw out four tips. They crashed into the wall of enemy machines, and hundreds of scarlet and violet flashes appeared in the darkness: they were firing lasers and swarms. At first glance, it was a devastating strike, but the quiet and cold voice of the analyst commented that the enemy had the advantage. Their machines turned out to be maneuverable and deadly, despite them lacking any missiles, plasma throwers, or even anything similar to a laser. Their only method of attack was a cluster of antiprotons, hitting targets from a long distance away and with deadly precision. Its energy and density were so great that they caused the annihilation of the trace amounts of particles in vacuum.

The _Sydney _was the first to die; a wide scarlet tongue reached from an alien machine, licked away three fighters, hit the stern, directly at the reactor protected by multiple layers of armor, and the cruiser disappeared in a fountain of flames. The scattered debris or, possibly, the Vultures' weapons hit the alien machine, but it didn't explode, instead breaking into pieces as if sliced by an invisible blade. Three other machines, breaking through a Kite screen, attacked the _Lancaster_, two more attacked the _Neva_; besides their numerical advantage, they also looked more maneuverable and faster than the human ships.

It seemed that the _Lancaster_ had launched the last of her missiles… They disappeared in the dark, then the darkness retreated from the crimson streams of fire reaching from the alien machines. The beams converged on the cruiser, at the very middle, but an instant before that, the _Lancaster_, like a mortally wounded animal, managed to fire her plasma cannons. Blinding stars flared wherever the plasma and antimatter streams crossed. Then the fusion reactor blew. Where there had once been a cruiser and three alien battle machines, there was now an iridescent nebula, its edges wildly spinning, stretching out into space with crooked orange fingers, seemingly trying to rip the darkness into pieces.

"Fifteen seconds to impact on the primary target," an unseen analyst's voice said. "Four hundred seventy-eight missiles in three waves, with the combined yield of one hundred and thirty-eight thousand six hundred megaton. It was assumed that their shields could not withstand the impact. However…"

A fierce flame burst into the quiet office, making the man sitting in front of the screen flinch. It almost seemed as if the universe, writhing in pain and silent moans, had born a new star and thrown it straight into the burning belly of the beast. Filters dimmed its light, turning it into a ghostly shadow, but it still remained frightening. Molten masses moved in its depths, swelled on the surface in monstrous scarlet humps, thinned into strands of prominence, throwing clumps of glowing plasma into the dark; it seemed as if the whole world, only recently similar to obsidian covered by rare sparks of stars, had suddenly turned into a fiery inferno.

A window opened in the center of the screen, showing frames of events in parallel with the explosion. The heavy raider _Pamir_ with the crew of two hundred disappeared in a flare after colliding with an alien craft; a Vulture squadron was incinerated by an annihilator's scarlet emission; the _Fuji_ and the _Neva_ became dispersing clouds of gas, the dead _Paraná_ drifted in the darkness, breaking apart. But the _Sakhalin_ continued to fight, firing lasers and swarms, and the _Tiburon_ and the _Rhine_ continued to hold their own above the ecliptic. The star created by the nuclear explosion and which formed the backdrop to these images, slowly dimmed, the prominences and plasma waves settled, the energy dissipated in the void in swarms of rapid rays. The peripheral region no longer blinded the eyes, and through its transparent haze the alien starship could be seen, undamaged and undefeated.

"The attempt to break through the defenses failed," the analyst commented. "Half of the flotilla has been destroyed. The reserve (the cruisers _Viking_ and _Volga_ and the admiral frigate _Suzdal_) was put into action. Their fighters are trying to flank the enemy." After a moment, he clarified, "The action was not successful."

The screen showed the three attacking ships, which were then replaced by a red-hot cloud, identical to the one that had swallowed up the _Lancaster_; the _Sakhalin_ and the _Rhine_ disappeared, followed by the Vultures and the Kites; the fearsome carousel of powerful war machines was now little more than rarefied gas. Three dozen alien craft hung in space, licking off rare fighters like gnats with their scarlet tongues. Behind this screen, the last remaining cruiser of the flotilla, the _Tiburon_, was racing toward the alien starship. Her weapons were silent. Covered in darkened armor, with melted turrets and hatches, she was going to ram the enemy, like a warrior of a broken army, refusing to accept defeat, performing a last hopeless attack. Two alien machines lazily turned towards her, spat fire, and the darkness was lit up by yet another plasma cloud.

At the bottom of the screen, a scroll appeared with the names of the destroyed cruisers along with the names of their captains, tactical and technical data, and crew complement; a mournful list, at the top of which were Admiral Timokhin and the _Suzdal_, the flotilla's flagship.

Twelve warships, two thousand crewmembers...

The video ended. The office's owner continued to sit for some time, staring at the floor, appearing to be deciding whether to watch the recording again, then raised his head and spoke, "Connect me to Washington. Immediately."


	2. Chapter 1

_This is a fan translation of _Invasion_ (Вторжение) __by Mikhail Akhmanov, currently only available in Russian and, because of the author's passing in 2019, unlikely to ever be published in English. This is the first book in a six-book series called _Arrivals from the Dark_ (Пришедшие из мрака), which also has a six-book spin-off series called _Trevelyan's Mission_ (Миссия Тревельяна)._

_I claim no rights to the contents herein._

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Solar System, space between the orbits of Pluto and Jupiter

The Ship of the Third Phase was moving towards the yellow star above the ecliptic, from the edge of the galactic arm where, the New Worlds remained behind the veil of a sparse nebula. No longer defenseless, since the Ship with its fleet of battle modules was fortunate enough to find this star system, located so well and, most likely, inhabited. Besides these obvious advantages, the fifth planet, a gas giant, surrounded by a swarm of moons, possibly carried traces of the Daskins, or rather a detectable anomaly connected to their astroengineering activities. For now, this was not definite knowledge but merely a hypothesis that needed to be tested, and the Ship, orienting itself to the faraway white spot, turned towards the enormous planet. This gigantic world could be more accurately classified as a protostar with multiple natural satellites; the exact situation that the Ancients had preferred.

The faster-than-light drive, allowing it to travel the galaxy, was turned off, and the Ship was flowing on gravity waves. It flowed leisurely, taking twelve time cycles to cross above the orbits of the outer planets. The ninth planet, the farthest of all, was of no interest. It was a tiny spheroid lacking any atmosphere, cold and barren, useful only for placing an outpost equipped for long-range detection. The eighth planet was hiding behind the yellow star but, ignoring the longer period of revolution, was similar to the seventh; both were large bodies with a mass an order of magnitude higher than optimal, far from the star and, therefore, poor in energy. The sixth planet was more interesting: an even more massive world with four moons and a ring made up of blocks of cosmic ice and pieces of rock. A rare phenomenon for an inhabited system; rare and useful, for the ring could be used as a source of various raw materials, from water required by the Ship to polymetallic ores.

However, there were no mining operations here. Perhaps, the resources of the inhabited world had not yet been depleted, or its inhabitants, already familiar with electromagnetism and signal transmission, had not yet reached space. However, it was also possible that that they did not require the fragmented matter of the ring, as they had an asteroid belt located at the border zone of the inner planets, closer and more convenient for long-term exploitation. A real treasure by the standards of any galactic race! A fount of ores and minerals, easily accessible in zero gravity and, therefore, fairly cheap. The scale of the operations in the asteroid belt could serve as the criteria for the technological development of the local Bino Tegari, but this question would still need to be addressed, as would the artifact of the Ancients. At the moment, the Ship's crew detected only an unintelligible stream of radio signals coming from the inhabited world, an omnidirectional emission, too weak to decipher. But this fact was just as promising, inviting and valuable as the strategic location of the system, accessible mineral deposits, and the anomaly on the gas giant. Perhaps, it was even more important, as no resources or artifacts could compare to the presence of intelligence.

Without descending to the ecliptic, the Ship flowed to the fifth planet. For now, it was unnamed, as were the other four outer and four inner worlds, as were the moons, comets, asteroids that belonged to the retinue of the yellow star. Certainly the Bino Tegari had names for all their heavenly bodies, and this information would become available to the Ship and the Sheaf. In inhabited systems, they had always kept the native names, even those they could not pronounce. Sometimes, they remained the only memory of races who did not survive the contact with an alien culture, who had died out or been exterminated. Of course, extermination was an undesirable outcome, as any interstellar civilization required servants and assistants.

The protostar turned from a bright spot into a large whitish disk, flecked by yellow-gray ripple of cyclones. Flows of gaseous masses in its atmosphere were chaotic and rapid; they spun in funnels, sped on the face of the giant, drifted from pole to pole, dove down, towards the superdense hydrogen core, and, finally, scattered, melted, disappeared. One of the vortices was motionless and stable. An enormous reddish ellipse located in the Southern hemisphere and taking up an eighth of it. The inner planets, from the first to the fourth, could drown in its depths together or separately. A monstrous anomaly, created not by a natural force but by the power and mind of the Ancients.

A reconnaissance module shot out from the Ship. This small pod was controlled by a t'ho, a semi-sentient pilot, connected to the navigation system via a bio-interface. The observation sphere on the Ship showed the bright spark rapidly fall towards the planet. Simultaneously with the spark's movement, the sphere lit up with tiny lights representing the gas giant's moons. Four of them were large, compared to planetary bodies; there were more than ten smaller ones. A web of symbols, appearing on the sphere's equator, displayed information about their sizes, masses, and periods of revolution.

The t'ho piloting the module suddenly began to mumble. Like every auxiliary worker, it was not talkative, and it was not easy to understand its speech outside the psychic field created by the minds of the crew. However, being connected to the Ship, the pod's message was clearer, as it transmitted visual rather than auditory information. Symbols with numerical data disappeared from the observation sphere, the enormous white segment of the protostar dissolved along with the red eye of the anomaly, but one of the moons, third by magnitude, became zoomed in. Its sight was frightening: crimson red, orange, and yellow colors mixed with black and white in a sharp, uncomfortable disharmony, volcanic vents spewed toxic fumes and lava, a web of scarlet cracks cut through the surface, riddled with hundreds of craters. There were raging flames in the depths of this world, and the tidal forces of the protostar, monstrous at this distance, had broken the fragile crust, throwing up the fiery wave rolling along the equator.

This eerie sight forced the Bino Faata standing near the observation sphere to shudder, but only for a moment. Visual data from the module came continuously, images changed with imperceptible speed, the fiery world moved away, turning into a blurry scarlet disk surrounded by a glow. To the side of it, an almost unnoticed shadow against the backdrop of the darkness, something shapeless appeared – a large structure, seemingly consisting of clumps of dark dust. A thin, blindingly bright beam stretched out from it to the pod. There was a flash, and the module ceased to exist.

The image in the sphere blinked, but the dark object had already been recognized by the Ship's defense system. There would not be any negotiations, they were futile; every encounter between the Bino Faata and the Silmarri ended the same way: annihilator volleys, turning the enemy into plasma. When the forces were equal, the same fate was unavoidable by both sides, but this time fortune had turned away from the Silmarri: the Ship was not facing a fleet but a single raider. Then again, the Silmarri did not try to hide; their collective mind did not fear destruction, and their instincts, at least as far the Bino Faata were concerned, did not leave them any choice but to attack.

The Ship dropped battle modules, six of them to block all directions in space and to avoid prolonging the battle any more than necessary. With the six-to-one odds, the battle did not last long; an annihilator strike punched through the Silmarri shields, a blinding light flashed, and an iridescent cloud of gas glowed in the darkness like a new nebula destined to bear a star, planets, and, possibly, even life.

An illusion, just an illusion! On the universal scale, the mass of the nebula was tiny, and most of the energy had dissipated in yellow rays. When the six modules docked with the Ship, the glow in the cloud disappeared, and the shards of atoms, all that was left of the Silmarri raider, disappeared into the eternal darkness and oblivion.

Those aboard the Ship remembered it, though. The fact that the aliens had managed to reach this galactic arm threatened the New Worlds, although the Silmarri, most likely, did not plan to conquer the colonies of the Third Phase. Perhaps, they were attracted to the yellow star by longwave radiation, a sign of a civilization using radio signals. Perhaps, they wanted to study the Daskin artifact or settle in the asteroid belt. Perhaps, they had some other goal, a completely incomprehensible one, for what humanoid could guess the priorities and goals of sentient worms? Either way, they had come here, and that was a warning – others could follow the Silmarri.

It was not in the nature of the Bino Faata to be hasty, but it was necessary to hurry. The Ship, surrounded by the haze of the shield, hovered near the enormous gas sphere, as if deciding whether to continue studying or head towards the inner world from where the signals were coming. Then the haze of the shield faded, the large cylinder smoothly turned its base towards the star, the gleaming convex hull catching and reflecting its rays. Gravity waves caught the Ship; it moved forward, picking up speed, but then froze, as if tied to the fifth planet by insurmountable forces.

A new object was approaching it. A tiny one this time, its mass much smaller than that of a battle module.


	3. Chapter 2

_This is a fan translation of _Invasion_ (Вторжение) by Mikhail Akhmanov, currently only available in Russian and, because of the author's passing in 2019, unlikely to ever be published in English. This is the first book in a six-book series called _Arrivals from the Dark_ (Пришедшие из мрака), which also has a six-book spin-off series called _Trevelyan's Mission_ (Миссия Тревельяна)._

_I claim no rights to the contents herein._

* * *

**Chapter 2**

Solar System, Jupiter's orbit.

May 14, 2008 by Earth time

The marines' wardroom aboard the _Lark_ was not big: eight paces in length, six in width and height. Everything intended for food and recreation was located by the walls and was either flat or narrow. Flat screens, with helmets and safety harnesses floating near them, flat hatch covers leading to the hallway and the showers, narrow folding tables that looked like shelves, narrow automated dispenser counters. But the middle of the room remained empty, as demanded by regulations: no obstacles to movement to the hatch and then, to the hallway on deck C. Jump out, dash to the hatches on the red wall, dive into the appropriately-numbered one, and get in your fighter. Then the cocoon closed, and pneumatic catapults threw the little craft out into the void… According to regulations, twenty-seven seconds after the alarm sounded.

The seats were also narrow, and Pavel Litvin barely fit between the armrests. This meant that his physical condition was at the limit, as oversized men and women were barred from the USF [United Space Forces, an international organization monitoring the near-Earth space and the Solar System. Created in 2054 and answerable to the UN Security Council. Absorbed such organizations as NASA as well as the space forces of Russia, the US, and the European nations.]. At the very least, they were barred from divisions and services related to flights, as a tall person with a large muscle mass required additional life support. More air, more water, more food, and a more spacious seat... Besides, large people lacked the agility and speed necessary in the space fleet and the marines, especially in zero-G and variable gravity conditions. At the Baikonur School, which Litvin had attended, tall and large cadets were teasingly called "basketball players", and they only had one road – to the ground-side teams and staffs. He remembered this every time he had to force himself into a seat. Only one centimeter of height separated him from the fate of the losers crawling on Earth's surface.

But now, the _Lark_ was in free flight, the seats were retracted into the walls, and Litvin floated under the ceiling, strapped into a safety harness. There was plenty of space here to stretch out his legs and move his arms without risking hitting someone's head or butt. The _Lark_, a medium cruiser of the First Space Fleet, carried sixteen armored amphibious tanks and as many Vulture-class UFs [Universal Fighters, small multirole combat spacecraft.], so the compartment was intended for sixteen marine pilots. But there were only four of them on this flight, allowing them to enjoy the unusual spaciousness in the wardroom and the crew cabins, as well as the idleness. The cruiser was not on combat patrol, not inspecting mine shafts on Mercury or in the Asteroid Belt, not protecting the routes between Earth and Luna from unwanted celestial bodies. She was simply performing the purely peaceful and boring task of setting up beacons.

These navigation buoys allowed ships to get oriented outside the reach of the Ultranet, about ten Astronomical Units [An Astronomical Unit (or AU) is equal to 149.6 million kilometers (about 93 million miles) from Sol, the average distance between the Earth and the Sun. In these units, the distance to Jupiter is about 5 AUs, to Saturn is 10 AUs, and to Pluto is 39.5 AUs from the Sun.], so around Saturn's orbit. USF experts figured that they would be enough for the next several years, until the start of the new century, since expeditions to the far planets (Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto) were still extremely exotic and rare. But Saturn and Jupiter were visited more frequently, even though it wasn't done by warships or the Marine Corps but by the USF scientific research division and university scientists. It was believed that it would be still many years before the industrial development and base construction on their moons, but every such activity began just like the Alaskan gold rush long ago, with the planting of towers and poles.

A beacon was a miniature automated station powered by film batteries, tracking its coordinates when moving on the heliocentric orbit behind Jupiter. Each of the thirty buoys had its own frequency and signal emission duty cycle, allowing them to be recognized with complete certainty; omnidirectional pulses repeated about once every ten minutes, the time necessary for power accumulation. Since the start of the mission several months ago, the _Lark_ had set up twenty-eight buoys and was now located near Jupiter. The sight of the mysterious planet added some variety into the lives of the crew; anyone could admire the cyclones on its surface and discuss the mysteries of the Great Red Spot. In some ways, this made the small rations, the yearning for the blue skies, and other annoyances like the regular training exercises conducted by B.J. more bearable.

Jupiter, in all its terrible and gloomy beauty, loomed on the ceiling screens. If one squinted and ignored Luis Rodriguez's muttering, it seemed as if one was floating at the edge of the atmosphere, unprotected by a spacesuit or the ship's armor, and the red eye of the Spot was playfully winking. Not much but still entertaining, Litvin thought , while looking at the white clouds passing over the Spot. It was better than listening to Rodriguez, who kept reminiscing about the feminine charms on the beaches of Acapulco. With his Latin temperament, he was talking about them for the hundredth time, and the face of the listening Corcoran was frozen in a martyr-like expression. Abby McNeil, who'd been as annoyed by Luis as Litvin was, slipped away to the farthest corner and, putting on a helmet and closing her eyes, listened to music. Based on how her hands were twitching, it was old-school rap.

"Girls," Rodriguez droned on, "such beautiful girls, Richard! May I never see the sky again! Beauties! Our Mexican girls, also girls from Argentina and Peru, then mulattoes from the States, and tons of other American girls... You lie there on the sand and see legs, legs, legs! All of them reaching the shoulders, you know, smooth and tanned, like..."

"What about breasts?" Corcoran wondered sluggishly. "Do breasts show up above the legs? Or did you not look above their knees?"

"Of course! Great tits, but between them and the knees there are also butts. A butt, Richard, is the most important part of a girl, like the warhead in a torpedo. Everything is holding on to it: the stuff that's glued on top, and the stuff that's screwed in from the bottom. Especially with American girls! You look at one, and your hands reach out on their own, and everything else... hmm... well, you know..."

"We also have an American girl," Corcoran pointed out, glancing at Abby. "No worse than those beauties in Acapulco."

"Her proportions are all wrong. What I mean is, her dimensions..." Rodriguez also cast a glance at the petite McNeil. "Thin, red-haired, pale, and as for her butt and tits-"

Litvin, pulling himself away from contemplating Jupiter, pointedly cleared his throat, and Rodriguez shut up. Then he spoke to Corcoran in a loud whisper.

"The Lieutenant Commander expresses his displeasure. Our commanding officer doesn't like to remember women's knockers and butts, as he's too busy with his duties. But it's okay... When we get back, I'll get him to Acapulco. There, I swear on the reactor, there's a great demand for Slavs! There, I tell you, Richard-"

The image of Jupiter disappeared, replaced by Communications Officer István Szabó's face. His full, bright lips quivered, and his voice rustled through the wardroom.

"Marine wing commander to report to the Captain. Immediately! Blue readiness level."

"At least it's not green," Rodriguez muttered. "And not red!"

"Training exercises again," Corcoran sighed, moving to the corner settled by McNeil. He patted the girl on the shoulder. "Wake up, Red! B.J. has work for you."

Clicking the safety harness's magnetic clasp, Litvin pressed the soles of his boots to the wall, pushed away, and slipped into the hatch. The hallway on deck C was wide enough to allow two people to pass by one another, both vertically and horizontally. The wall painted an alert red hue by the floor had numbered flat hatch covers; the opposite wall, as well as the floor and the ceiling, were painted a calm bright-gray color. Eight hatches in the gray wall lead to the crew cabins, each intended for two; Litvin shared a cabin with his old friend Corcoran, while McNeil and Rodriguez enjoyed their solitude for this flight. Although, it wasn't a secret that Richard occasionally visited Abby. These non-regulation relations were not encouraged among the marines, but they weren't forbidden either. The USF brass were sensible people, who understood that any methods for fighting melancholy and loneliness were acceptable.

Reaching the shaft like a bullet, Litvin twisted into it, pulled himself up by his hands on the ladder steps up to deck B, where the crew lived, and then onto deck A, where the command and navigation were located. It was more spacious here; if one stretched out one's hands, one couldn't reach the walls. By naval tradition, one of the many taken up by the space fleet, the hallway of deck A was called the quarterdeck, and it is here that crewmembers would be lined up in parade dress. The _Lark_ was built in 2060 and had flown for twenty-eight years, so she wasn't a new ship, having gone through two crews already, so the hallway was covered by over two hundred holo-portraits. Captains and navigators, marines and pilots, engineering officers, communications officers, and gunners gravely looked down on Litvin, who was hurrying to get to the bridge. He was doing the "moonwalk," pushing away from the floor with his toes, which allowed him to cover three-four meters in a single bound. The important thing with this method of movement was to avoid hitting your head on the ceiling, which hurt even at zero-G.

The diaphragm of the oval hatch slid open, and he dove into the control room, catching his foot on a brace, and reported.

"Lieutenant Commander Litvin reporting as ordered, sir!"

B.J. Cassidy, master after God aboard the _Lark_, impatiently waved at him. It was Second Officer Prizzi's watch, but the entire command staff was on the bridge: the Captain, First Officer Jacques Chevreuse, Senior Navigator Seidel, and Chief Engineer Bondarenko. Besides them, there were two on-duty pilots and the young Ensign Szabó, a communications officer. Prizzi and the pilots sat behind the control panel, the others crowding behind them.

Litvin stared at the large ceiling screen. It kept looping a recording: a dark void with a scattering of stars, roughly in the direction of the north galactic pole, then a sudden explosion and a blinding cloud of iridescent gas that looked like a crimson-blue squid with its tentacles spread out. The cloud quickly paled at the edges, melting into the black cosmic abyss and finally dissolved in it, letting starlight through again. This image kept repeating, and numbers flashed on the sensor screens: distance, coordinates, luminosity, approximate power, radiation dispersion.

"Mainly hard gamma radiation," Bondarenko boomed. "Very fast too, the whole cycle took less than a minute."

"Definitely fast," Prizzi confirmed. "The sensors again show normal background radiation, and the radar doesn't see anything. The optics are also blank. Empty! Strange!"

First Officer Chevreuse smirked, "Let me explain to the slow on the uptake: a positron and an electron, traveling at near-light speeds with the dynamic mass of two megaton, collided. If their mass had been a hundred orders of magnitude greater, we'd have gotten a new universe... As for the old one, it would've been most definitely wiped out, along with us!"

"So we got lucky, Jacques, incredibly lucky," Seidel spoke, also stretching his thin lips in a smile. "Us, the Solar System, the whole galaxy. But it's hard to believe in such a collision." Turning to the computer terminal, he touched a few keys and said, "Here, look! The probability of occurrence is about ten to the power of negative five hundred. We don't even have a name for that number!"

"What does nature care for names?" Chevreuse countered with his usual French ease. "Nature simply takes a positron and an electron and–"

"Shut up," the Captain uttered quietly, and the bridge became silent. "First of all, I'm not a fan of the Big Bang theory, and second, I'd like to know precisely what happened there. Olafsson," B.J. patted a pilot on the shoulder, "what's the distance to the phenomenon?"

"Three hundred and twelve point four five megameters, Captain."

"A three-hour flight... And there's nothing at that location before or after? No ship, no probe, no asteroid, not even a lousy rock? Seidel, check it out!"

The navigator got into the chair in front of the computer terminal, the others bending over the screens displaying the stream's spectral characteristics. Litvin saw only their backs in stretched jumpsuits, Chevreuse's dark curls, and Bondarenko's large bald spot. Then he heard the engineer's voice.

"Jacques's right! The spectrum looks like the annihilated mass was in the ton range! Maybe, an antimatter rock flew into our neighborhood? But no... a complete annihilation at this distance would've incinerated us like roaches in an oven... But looks like it... very much, damn it! Either annihilation or a nuclear explosion..."

The eyes of young István Szabó, standing by Litvin's side, grew big and he started whispering in Pavel's ear.

"What do you think, Paul, an illegal ship's reactor blew? And what illegal? Here, right next to Jupiter? A Mohammedan or an Asian? Maybe a Neoluddite?"

Litvin shook his head.

Ridiculous assumptions! Only Szabó's young age and inexperience excused them. Islamic terrorists, the Children of Allah, the Crimson Jihad, and all the others, like the Neoluddites, did not go into space, and the ships of the Celestial Empire weren't powerful enough to get to the outer planets. Terrorists had plenty to do back on Earth, each activity more interesting than the next; miniature weapons, tetraplague viruses, and psychotropic drugs gave them so many possibilities that there was no need for terrorist activity on Mars on near Jupiter. As far as the Chinese, sure, they would've loved to cause a few "inconveniences" in Cererian mines or Martian domes, but their fleet was monitored by the USF orbital division. Besides, despite the Chinese being capable of building fusion power plants, a compact reactor capable of powering a ship on a long-distance flight was still an unattainable dream for them. The unspoken policy of containing China's technological growth was very effective.

"What do you have, Kurt?" came the Captain's voice.

"Still checking, sir" Seidel reported. "There are as many rocks in space as there is mud in a swamp... Eight hundred and nine thousand, according to the catalog."

"Someone's ship? Or a probe?"

"Already checked, definitely not. No flights to Jupiter's orbit for the last eight weeks. Before that, the _Copernicus_ was hanging out here with Polish and Swedish planetologists. More research on the Great Red Spot, a joint expedition of the Krakow and Stockholm universities."

"Could it have been the _Copernicus_?"

"Doubtful, sir. We received information on her six days ago, during the last communication session with the _Barracuda_. The tub is safely on its way to the Martian _Mariner_ station."

There was no chance of it being an illegal ship, noted Litvin. Theoretically, it was still an option. A large interplanetary corporation like Boeing Cosmic or Neo Polymetal could have outfitted a ship or an automated probe and sent it to any area, filing a false flight plan. But these corporations counted their money and did not spend it on pointless ventures. The big bosses were not university professors; they cared about ore deposits in the Asteroid Belt, not the mysteries of the Great Red Spot.

The computer finished searching the catalog and emitted a musical tone. Seidel move away to let the Captain see the screen. Then he growled, "Nothing, sir."

"There can't be anything there," Prizzi said. "Except maybe for some tiny pebble... Can't catalog them all!"

"What if the pebble isn't ours?" Bondarenko boomed. "It could've come from outside, and if it's really made up of antimatter–"

"No more discussions," B.J. interrupted, straightening up. "We're going to go to the phenomenon's location and see what's there. Seidel, plot the course; Chevreuse, relieve Prizzi. Everyone to their battle stations!" He bent over the intercom and barked, "This is the Captain! Green alert!"

"My mission, sir?" Litvin asked.

"Get out there and examine the space two megameters away from the ship. Look for any debris or suspicious radiation. If we see something on sensors, you'll get further instructions. The operation will begin... Kurt, when will we get there?"

"In three hours and seven minutes, Captain. Accelerating at point-two _g_s."

"Good. Go, Paul," B.J. pushed Litvin towards the exit. "We'll drop you guys off on approach, about ten minutes before. Wait for the signal!"

Litvin got out into the hallway but didn't have time to get to the shaft before a sharp wail of the siren shook the air. It wailed three times at five second intervals, warning the crew to prepare for acceleration. He grabbed a brace, relaxed, heard the quiet rumble of awakening engines, and felt himself being pulled down. The floor became the floor, the ceiling became the ceiling, and Lieutenant Commander Litvin was no longer a balloon but weighed a whopping sixteen kilograms. Experiencing the pleasant feeling of connection to the universal force of gravity, he dashed into the shaft and slid down to deck C. Behind him, hatches opened with a soft rustle, trampling, human voices, and sharp orders filled the air. The crew was going to their battle stations.

The signal was received two hours and fifty minutes later. Flat hatch covers numbered one through four silently slid into the wall, the marines crouched as one, as if they were acrobats performing a trick, and, slipping their feet into the dark openings and holdings their palms flat against their thighs, slid down into the ship's hold, where their Vultures slept. Each of them was located in a tiny compartment, like a bullet in a machine-gun clip; eight fighters to port and eight to starboard. Behind them, in the fore hangar, stood Sims, amphibious tanks for ground and water-based operations, nicknamed "Roaches" for their speed and agility. Both were powerful weapons in the cruiser's arsenal and, without a doubt, the most intelligent. They were controlled by people, after all. Not without the help of computers, of course.

A wide flexible hose threw Litvin out straight into the embrace of the cocoon seat. The protective shell closed in around his chest and shoulders, abdomen and thighs, knees and shins, leaving his hands and neck free; a helmet descended from above, then the cockpit dome slid closed, and the target designator grid blinked to life in its matte depth. Litvin habitually tensed the muscles in his left leg, then right, and the Vulture rocked back and forth in its nest. He turned his neck, moved his eyes around; the automed dot flashed, the missile, laser, and multi-barrel swarm indicators obediently slid down the dome screen. Now, packed into a cocoon, whose fabric was permeated by biosensors, and connected to the autopilot, he formed an integral whole with his machine, sensing it as an extension of his body, especially of his limbs and eyes. This feeling was also familiar, ingrained after nine years of flying through space and the atmospheres of three planets.

"Vulture One ready," Litvin said and heard similar reports from his subordinates. Then the communicator growled in Chevreuse's voice, "Permission to catapult granted!", and he moved his left foot slightly. The airlock's diaphragm slid open, a stream of compressed gas threw the Vulture a hundred meters from the ship, the engine quietly purred, and his dome became transparent, displaying stars and Jupiter's enormous disk, twice the size of Luna's. The target designator grid became brighter. The checkered world, as the marine pilots liked to joke.

Litvin watched as three silver darts fluttered out of their hatches on clouds of white steam. Rodriguez, his wingman, immediately took up a position behind him, while Corcoran and McNeil went into the lower hemisphere and made a circle under the _Lark_'s flat belly. On her hull, near the bow, was an image of a bird, but the cruiser looked more like a big fish. A huge trout swimming in the dark night waters; only the sensor antennae, the plasma thrower barrels, and the gun turrets disrupted the harmony of the smooth outline of the hull. A flaming tongue fluttered aft of the ship.

"The Vultures are in space," Litvin reported. "Starting the mission."

"Proceed," the communicator responded, in the Captain's voice this time.

The fighters separated: a pair of them spiraled up, and the other pair went down. The _Lark_ turned from a huge fish into a tiny one, then disappeared completely, turning into a blip on the radar. There were five blips: the cruiser, the three UFs, and the last of the set up beacons, looming on the edge as a barely-noticeable spark. Besides them, Litvin did not see anything, not counting Jupiter and the stars, of course. But these celestial bodies didn't interest him at the moment.

"Vulture One to Vulture Two. Maintain course parallel to the ship, distance – one megameter. Vultures Three and Four, same route but in the lower sector."

"Understood," Corcoran answered. "Taking the lower sector, maintaining the distance of one megameter."

Luis also confirmed the order, then chuckled and added, "By the way, about Acapulco. The best-looking girls there are Cuban mulatto chocolates. Paul, they have such–"

"Vultures, keep the channel clear!" the Captain's voice barked. "What's on the radar and the sensors?"

"Nothing, sir," Litvin replied. "Just the cosmic microwave background radiation and the Solar component."

"Report every five minutes."

"Aye-aye, sir."

Litvin initiated a timer with a sound signal, then leaned his head back a little, admiring the heavens. Bright star points gleamed among dust clouds and gas nebulae, the curved path of the Milky Way shone, the unknown hid in the dark voids, galaxies whose light has not yet reached Earth, black holes, neutron stars... This view always fascinated Litvin and, almost as a contrast, evoked memories of his native Smolensk; he imagined the Milky Way as the Dnieper, and something familiar showed through the outlines of the constellations: an ancient fortress with brick towers, the domes of a cathedral, the city theater or the house on Gagarin Street where his family lived. Mom, Dad, sister with her husband, two nephews... After each flight he came home; the steep shore of the Dnieper was dearer to Litvin than Acapulco's beaches, as for the girls, no chocolate Cubans could compare to the Smolensk beauties. Although he should probably try a chocolate, for variety's sake. Litvin didn't consider himself a Don Juan, but he never shied away from female companionship.

The timer sang a melody. After looking at the sensor readings, Litvin reported.

"Vulture One to the ship. Nothing on the optics. Nothing on the radar. I'm registering only the normal cosmic background radiation."

"Vulture Three to the ship," Corcoran responded immediately. "Same situation. Except the background radiation is three percent above the norm."

"Understood. Continue the observation."

Quite possibly, this flight on the _Lark_ was the last for Litvin. He suspected that the USF headquarters had already prepared an order to promote and transfer him to the Third Fleet, possibly to a heavy cruiser like the _Barracuda_, _Starfire_, or _Siberia_. Those were powerful ships, no question! Eight decks, pools, gyms, strolling galleries, and no shared cabins, each crewmember had his own quarters... And, most importantly, thirty-six UFs, and not the ten-year-old Vultures, but the brand-new Kites. It would be an honor to command such a wing, but the thought of leaving the _Lark_ brought sadness and melancholy. He, most likely, would never again meet Richard, the quiet Abby, and the talkative Rodriguez... Each had his own liberty schedule, and if they ever saw one another again, it'd probably be in about ten years, after leaving the service. Perhaps, they, being veterans, wouldn't be completely written off but, instead, sent to a ground team, an orbital station, or the USF Lunar Base... But he didn't want to think about that, even though the lounges on the base were spacious, and the food was beyond praise. However, Litvin would have preferred a confined cabin and a small shipboard ration, just to continue flying. Farther and farther, from Jupiter to Saturn, from Saturn to Uranus, Neptune, Pluto and, finally, into the dark abyss separating Sol from the nearby stars...

He sighed. It was unlikely that this dream would come to pass in his lifetime. Fusion engines accelerated ships to speeds suitable for traveling within the Solar System, but something else was necessary for expeditions to the stars. Something that would be invented by distant descendants...

The timer rang again.

"Vulture One to the ship. No change on the parameters."

"Vulture Three to the ship. Nothing visually and on the radar, but the background radiation has increased by twelve percent."

"We're reading five percent. Most likely, we're near the explosion site."

That was Chevreuse, but then the Captain's voice sounded.

"Vultures Three and Four. Determine the increase gradient of the residual radiation. We're moving towards you, since you're closer to the epicenter. Vultures One and Two, follow me. Maintain distance of thirty to fifty kilometers."

"Roger," Litvin said.

"I'm starting the maneuver," Corcoran reported.

He and McNeil were going to have to fly around the darkness and emptiness, navigating using the sensor readings. Streams of ionized particles and gamma rays, borne by the strange explosion, had not yet completely dissipated, and, with a lot of patience, it was possible to detect the phenomenon's center. _Something will be there,_ Litvin thought, altering his trajectory. _If a reactor blew, there will be debris, and if a rock was vaporized, then its dust will still be hovering above Jupiter._

He'd had to deal with rocks before. One of USF's primary tasks was space security, meaning protecting Earth from intense solar flares and celestial bodies that could, if falling on its surface, could stop the victorious progress of civilization. Among the minor planets there were about fifty objects from one to eight kilometers in diameter, whose orbits crossed that of Earth, and their energy of possible collision was a hundred thousand megaton. In 1937, one of them, called Hermes, passed within eight hundred megameters from Earth, right next to it on the scale of the universe. The nuclear arsenal and spaceships were the only guarantee against the repeat of the catastrophe that had wiped out the dinosaurs. As a visual demonstration, a fleet of ten cruisers had blown apart a planetoid in the Asteroid Belt. Litvin had very vivid memories from that operation.

The timer reminded him that five minutes had passed.

"Vulture One to the ship. I'm detecting the increase of the background radiation by sixteen percent. I'm in visual range. Nothing on the radar."

"Vulture Three to the ship. Just passed a zone with triple the background radiation level, likely the epicenter. Nothing on the radar."

"Vulture Three, return. Got your coordinates, coming to examine the epicenter." Pause. Then, "All Vultures! Configuration X-4."

This meant that the fighters had to patrol aft of ship, forming into either a cross or a diamond pattern; a useful formation for monitoring the periphery. Litvin, as the wing commander, was to be positioned at the top, with respect to the north galactic pole. He took his Vulture up to the top of the "cross", tracking McNeil, Corcoran, and Rodriguez's machines on the radar; Abby was directly below him, while Luis and Richard were lower, to the left and right, respectively. The tiny fighters were lost against the darkness of space, but the _Lark_ could be detected in the optic visor: a silver dart with a crimson torch aft of her. Then the fire faded and flared again, but this time the flame was coming from the auxiliary engines, surrounding the cruiser with a pink vibrating halo.

"Decelerate. One-point-five _g_s," Chevreuse ordered. "Vultures, the Captain instructs you to come closer to the range of five kilometers."

Litvin entered the adjustment and moved slightly forward, but a red error dot blinked in his helmet a minute later. This was incredible, even impossible: during joint maneuvers, the Vulture autopilots received their course data directly from the shipboard ANS [Astronavigation System]. But…

"They're leaving us," Corcoran's voice came. "They're not slowing down; they're maintaining their previous speed! Am I sleeping? Or have our computers gone nuts?"

"You're sleeping," Rodriguez added. "But with whom? That's what I'd like to know."

McNeil remained silent. She was an unusually calm and silent girl. She was also disciplined and knew that the wing commander would find out about the reason for the delay.

"Vulture One to the ship," Litvin said. "Confirm the deceleration order."

The communicator was silent. A second passed, then another, then a third, then B.J.'s voice barked, "Full power, Chevreuse! Damnation, what is going on?"

"Decelerating at maximum, Captain. We're being pulled in…"

"Where? There's nothing there! Nothing, damn the reactor!"

Nothing, Litvin silently agreed, glancing at the radar screen. There was only vacuum in front of the _Lark_. Three hydrogen atoms per cubic meter. No black holes, no white dwarves, no other anomalies.

"Red alert!" the Captain shouted suddenly. "I repeat, red alert! Ready swarms, fire on my command!"

Swarms were humane weapons, when compared to lasers, plasma throwers, nuclear warheads, and the rest of the ship's arsenal, of course. A stream of ice crystals, fired at a great velocity, turned armor, spacesuits, machines, and human bodies into a sieve. It, however, lacked such damaging effects as radiation or a blast wave; a swarm cleared away strictly localized areas without unfortunate consequences.

"Should we launch missiles?" came Chevreuse's hoarse whisper.

"No. We don't know what's out there," the Captain muttered. "Swarms one through six, narrow spread, fire!"

The radar screen showed six semi-transparent spots. They separated from the dark arrow of the ship and rushed out into the void, crossing the screen. At cosmic speeds, the impact of the tiny icicles was greater than the explosion of an old-fashioned artillery shell.

"Form pincers. Prepare to attack," Litvin ordered. His fighter shifted to the left, and Rodriguez immediately lined up next to it; Corcoran and McNeil took up positions to the right at the same level. The Vulture formation now looked like pliers about to close.

"Who are we attacking, Vulture One?" Rodriguez asked. "Or what? Vacuum?"

It was a valid question, as Litvin didn't see anything worthy of attacking.

"Vulture One to the ship. Requesting instructions. What–"

He didn't have time to finish, as a barely shimmering glow appeared ahead, drowning out the entire universe. A siren blared, the autopilot took over the controls and took the fighter into a sharp climb, trying to avoid a collision, and then the fighter's hull was struck. The dome cracked, something pierced Litvin's left leg and arm, dug under his ribs, and he felt the warm trickle of blood oozing from the wounds. Then a great weight crushed him against the cocoon, and his fading conscience told him that the acceleration had to be at least 15 _g_s.

The last thing he saw was the _Lark_'s hull, perforated with hundreds of holes, all of which were spewing air, which swirled and turned into white snowflakes. _Dead, they're all dead,_ a thought flashed. _What did that?.._

He lost consciousness.


	4. Chapter 3

_This is a fan translation of _Invasion_ (Вторжение) by Mikhail Akhmanov, currently only available in Russian and, because of the author's passing in 2019, unlikely to ever be published in English. This is the first book in a six-book series called _Arrivals from the Dark_ (Пришедшие из мрака), which also has a six-book spin-off series called _Trevelyan's Mission_ (Миссия Тревельяна)._

_I claim no rights to the contents herein._

* * *

**Chapter 3**

Near-Earth space, Earth and Luna

The explosion near Jupiter was detected by an astronomer named Liu Chang, who was on duty at the large reflecting telescope of the Kepler Observatory. It was an orbital observatory, which had come on-line two years ago, and was owned by the Federation of European and North American Universities. It was well-funded, and the large telescope on the Kepler was indeed large, the mirror's diameter being a hundred and twenty-four meters. Every astronomer on Earth dreamed of being given access to this tool, and those who didn't were either disabled, therefore not being qualified for orbital flights, or complete fools who didn't have a prayer of earning an academic degree.

There was, however, a third category: citizens of nations considered potentially dangerous for the global community, who were not given access to the latest technological development. Liu was one of these undesirables, being Chinese and not from the USC or EAU [USC – United States and Canada; EAU – Eurasian Union, consisting of Russia, Belarus, several nations from the Caucasus, Central Asia, and the Mongolian Governorate.], but from Shanghai, so an actual Chinaman. The undesirability of his presence on the Kepler was explained by several reasons: the fact that one out of four people on Earth was Chinese, and the fact that the Chinese expansion into both of the Americas, Australia, Siberia, and, of course, South-East Asia, was a threatening phenomenon, and the fact that the Chinese, unwilling to assimilate, continued to see the Celestial Kingdom as the center of the world. So John A. Bradford, British astrophysicist and the observatory's director, could only guess at how Liu Chang had managed to get aboard the Kepler. But Liu's papers were in order, and a two-month fellowship term was also sensible, so he couldn't send the Chinaman back to Shanghai before the end of that term.

From a professional viewpoint, Liu was an excellent observer. Quick-eyed, despite being narrow- and slant-eyed. Bud Grieco, Bradford's deputy, had put him on the USF contract, according to which the Kepler was to track the movement of the Apollo asteroids between the orbits of Mars and Jupiter. If one of these bodies was to get captured by the gas giant's gravity field, its trajectory changed, and, thus, Jupiter was under the constant watchful eye of ground-based and orbital observatories. Monitoring it was not considered a prestigious or interesting task, but hundreds of astronomers did that, being fed by USF grants. The quick-eyed Liu was one of them.

Had he been merely a quick-eyed Chinaman with a two-month fellowship term, Bradford would've endured him. But his fantasies!.. These improbable conjectures!.. This self-assurance, these absurd demands!.. And they said that the Chinese were a pragmatic people, not prone to fantasy!

Liu's face was looming before Bradford, and Liu Chang himself was sitting on the hard seat in his office. Very hard, but with half of Earth's gravity, he could sit there all day and all night. Sit and drone on.

"It was an annihilation, sir." Liu had trouble pronouncing the 'r' sound. "An annihilation near Jupiter cannot be considered a natural process. I approximated the power of the explosion, sir. As you know, the distance between Earth and Jupiter is currently six-point-three Astronomical Units. To see the flash at this distance, even with our telescope, the power had to be at least a hundred megaton. And it was more, sir, at lot more!"

"Fine," Bradford nodded with a doomed look. "You have noticed a very interesting phenomenon, and we will study it. We'll make the calculations, analyze the images, even name the phenomenon after you. What else do you want, Liu?"

"No name necessary. I am a humble man. I only want you to inform the United Space Forces headquarters of my hypothesis. Also presidents… The President of the USC, the President of Russia, and the President of the European Council. Also the Secretary-General of the UN."

"What about the King of England and the German Chancellor?" Bradford asked with obvious sarcasm.

"No need. They will be notified by the European Council."

"And China? Why not let them know too?"

"China did not take up the responsibility of protecting Earth from spaceborne threats. China does not have cruiser-type ships."

_And thank God for that,_ Bradford thought. Aloud he said, "Do you fully understand… hmm… the unusualness of your hypothesis?"

"Why unusual? It had to happen someday."

"Someday! Maybe in a million years! If you remember the classics, Shklovsky proved that–"

"Forgive me, sir, but he did not prove anything. He merely postulated a hypothesis that cannot be verified. Mine can be! In a few days or in a month. But if we are not ready when their ship reaches Earth… and if their goals are not honorable but the reverse… Do you wish to accept this responsibility?"

The argument was going on for more than an hour. John A. Bradford wearily closed his eyes, massaged his eyelids and muttered, "Rubbish! Rubbish, nonsense, and sheer idiocy!"

"Why nonsense? I have seen an inexplicable phenomenon near Jupiter that looked like an antimatter explosion, and I say it is an alien ship. Maybe they turned on their planetary drive, or blew up an asteroid, or conducted some sort of experiment… In any case, they will be here soon, and it would be better if the USF fleet met them somewhere in Mars's orbit. Meet them and decide if they should be allowed near Earth."

_Cretin,_ Bradford thought. _Dumb, stubborn, slant-eyed cretin!_

Suddenly, he had a new thought. A magnificent thought, worthy of a Brit, for the British were always considered excellent diplomats.

"Why do you want me specifically to contact the USF, the UN, and those high-placed persons who need to be informed? You could send them messages yourself. And not just them. After all, that why the Ultranet exists."

"But sir, the Ultranet is full of various hoaxes! Who will believe me? I meant your personal appeal and a motivated report. You are known in the USF and the UN, and your scientific reputation–"

"Is exactly what I don't want to risk," Bradford admitted innocently.

Liu sadly raised his eyebrows, "You do not want to be the savior of Earth?"

"I will gladly leave that honor to you, Liu. This is your hypothesis, not mine! If you go to the press and the telly, I will even let you introduce yourself as an associate of the Kepler Observatory…" Bradford's eyes flashed slyly. "In that case I am prepared to confirm that you have worked on the large telescope and that our archives contain the image of the mysterious flash near Jupiter, as well as the entire computer recording. So let's separate honey from oil: I get the scientific materials, and you get the original commentary. Deal?"

Drooping his black-haired head, Liu muttered something in Chinese. Then said, "Deal. Of course, the press and the television are not as respectable as an appeal to the UN and the USF. The television is full of scam artists, and the press too. What do they want? Sensationalism, only sensationalism, damn it!"

Bradford shrugged, smiled, and stared at Liu.

"Well, dear boy?"

"I do not understand, sir…"

"You have been on your fellowship here for only a week. On the other hand, you want to publicize your hypothesis as soon as possible, as time is short, and the alien ship is nearing Earth. Contacts with reporters require your physical presence… So what are you going to do?"

"Oh, that…" Liu Chang sighed and shook his head like a Chinese bobblehead. "What is there to do? I will have to interrupt my work in your respectable facility. I am very sorry, sir… I had a rare fortune to work under your leadership and Dr. Grieco's wise guidance… I will take the first shuttle to Earth, sir. With your permission, of course."

John A. Bradford anxiously looked at the clock.

"Agreed! But hurry up, dear Liu, the shuttle leaves in thirty-seven minutes. I would not wish to hold you up until tomorrow. We _are_ talking about Earth's safety, after all…"

"Dispatch from Voss, Mr. Angelotti. It's urgent!"

Pierre Angelotti, the head of the _CosmoSpiegel_, sniffed in surprise, squirmed in his chair and looked up at his secretary. Today, Michelle was wearing a sleeveless purple unitard; the shimmering fabric was stretched across her chest and shapely hips, highlighting their unquestionable merits. Not a girl but an advertisement! And advertisement was the engine of trade, including newspaper trade. The _CosmoSpiegel_ was an influential weekly periodical, headquartered in Brussels, and was offered to its readers in eight languages, including Russian and Arabic, and in three packages: a traditional magazine, a TV program, and an Ultranet site.

After finishing admiring Michelle, Angelotti grunted approvingly and stretched out his hand palm up. The girl's thin fingers dropped a chip the size of a small coin into it. Gunther Voss, the _CosmoSpiegel_'s best digger, didn't trust modern means of communication, preferring to deal with the magazine using old-fashioned couriers. A useful habit! Most Ultranet messages could be intercepted, and Voss's information was usually confidential. He was one of the top ten nosiest reporters and cost the _Spiegel_ a pretty penny.

What news had he dug up now? Cradling the chip in his huge hand, Angelotti decided that he could expect something sensational. Voss had been given a two-month creative leave to put together a book of articles for the past several years, which promised him a Pulitzer. But it had only been a week, not enough to prepare the book, and the head of the _CosmoSpiegel_ did not doubt that the chip had nothing to do with it. The restless Gunther Voss had to have sniffed out something else! Maybe the truth about the fighting between the New Greens and the ecoterrorists in Munich, or the Venus colonization plans…

Angelotti stared out the window, as if looking for the answer among the clouds moving in the blue spring sky. The _CosmoSpiegel_ office took up the fortieth and forty-first floors of the Skyship Building. From this height, the skies looked amazing: their azure infinity, the birds circling buildings, the silver airliner flying towards the Atlantic.

Grunting again, Angelotti glanced at Michelle.

"A cocktail, my dear. Vodka martini. As usual, stirred, not shaken."

It was a very old joke, but Michelle smiled as befitted a well-trained secretary. Waiting until she'd gone to the reception, Angelotti took a sip and pressed the left armrest on his chair. It was a grandiose construction of leather and wood with a titanium frame that could fit three regular-sized people. But Angelotti was not one of them: he weighed a hundred and sixty kilograms and was even listed in the Guinness Book of Records as the fattest editor in the Solar System.

The armrest opened to reveal a decoder slot. Slipping the chip into it, Angelotti, grunting and wheezing from the effort, pulled out a thin cable and connected it to the film screen. He then touched the statue of the Egyptian goddess Neith that adorned the desktop. The golden sculpture the size of his palm was genuine, found in King Tut's tomb over a century and a half ago and cost him a small fortune. The sensor activating the decoder had been built into the goddess's private parts.

Sipping the cocktail, Angelotti followed the lines appearing on the screen. The eyebrows on his moon-like face with sagging cheeks were slowly rising, his forehead was wrinkling, and the small eye slits, usually covered by the swollen eyelids, were growing bigger and bigger. After reading all of it, he downed the glass and grunted, "Madonna mia! Has he gone insane?" After re-reading the text once more, he turned off the decoder.

Without naming his source, Voss was informing him that the Kepler Observatory had detected a flash near Jupiter. Most likely it was annihilation decay, which could be explained in two ways: an appearance of an antimatter mass, or a visit by extraterrestrials coming from Alpha Centauri, Sirius, Procyon, or such faraway galactic places that neither mind nor computer could calculate. The alien hypothesis was more probable (Voss was referencing a specialist's opinion here), therefore the security service would send a cruiser with a marine contingent to investigate the site. Voss believed that the operation would be conducted in secret, at least until the alien ship or probe became visible on independent telescopes. That could happen in the nearest week or month, becoming the news of the millennium.

That was true, silently agreed Angelotti. But what was also true was that it was only the news of the millennium for the one who reported it first. He knew it as well as Voss, who was hinting that this news would probably be worthless in a week's time.

Angelotti called his secretary and asked to connect him to Sid Chapman, the editor-in-chief, and Claude Parillaud, the head of advertising. Their meeting lasted only ten minutes; they decided that Voss's information would be put on the front page and that they would double the circulation and quintuple the advertising cost. Then Angelotti had another cocktail, lay back in his enormous chair, folded his arms over his bulging belly and closed his eyes. His imagination showed him alien ships of various shapes and colors: silver cones, blue toroids, snow-white spheres lit up by lights, and pink flying saucers.

_Could it be true?.._ he thought. He felt an icy shiver and, summoning Michelle once again, asked her to make him another vodka martini.

In the Solar System, the USF Lunar Base was considered to be the primary one. It had been built on the North-Western edge of Mare Imbrium, the same location reached by the famous Russian rover _Lunokhod_, which had landed somewhere around here during the previous century and journeyed for ten and a half kilometers. Now this historical relic was standing on a high pedestal of lunar basalt right before an entrance to the transparent dome of the airlock. Behind the dome, on the astrodrome, there were the ships of the First Fleet, distant descendants of chemically-fueled rockets: the heavy cruisers _Tethys_, _Arethusa_, _Azov_, and _Oberon_, the medium cruisers _Yenisei_ and _Prague_, as well as frigates and corvettes. The naming tradition came from naval fleets. The HMS _Oberon_ had been a British diesel submarine, an iron tub capable of reaching seventeen miles per hour and armed with thirty torpedoes. The new _Oberon_, a monstrous tower made out of a superstrong composite, could go seventeen miles per second and could easily wipe out all the wet navies of the 20th century.

The fleet was located on the surface. As for the base, it was buried under the lunar soil a hundred to a hundred eighty meters deep. The term "base" no longer fit the structure, but a military designation did not allow for it to be considered a city. Despite the fact that twenty thousand people lived there, they were called personnel rather than residents, the same way that the most common type of dwelling was a barrack rather than a house. The barracks, however, were well-arranged, with individual compartments of decent cubage, pools, relaxation areas, bars, and cafes.

The two lower levels above the reactor hall, the twentieth and twenty-first, were allocated to the USF headquarters. Strictly speaking, the headquarters took up only the twentieth level, with the twenty-first being considered a backup in case of force deployment or an increase in staff. But everything here was done on the same scale as above: a kilometer-long avenue, eight lateral hallways, twelve hundred halls and compartments for various purposes, from offices to the sauna, the infirmary, and the brig. The central artery, like the avenues on the other levels of the base, was oriented from north to south, with the restricted area Zed located in the northern end, containing the apartments of the triumvirs, meeting rooms, as well as the communication and fleet control rooms.

These compartments, located in a side passage, were separated by a special vestibule before which, like symbols of power, stood winged lions with the faces of ancient kings. Fleet Admiral Timokhin did not know where they'd been found; perhaps in the ruins of Nineveh or Babylon, perhaps in the cities of the Achaemenids like Susa or Ecbatana. However, this didn't stop him from admiring the statues, which was why he'd convinced his colleagues to descend to the lower level, to one of the backup oak-paneled offices. This was where they conferred, and the kingly lions, eaten away by the terrestrial rains and winds, maintained their serenity in a harsh silence.

But was it truly serenity? Even here, away from the bustle of the twentieth level, serenity was relative. Complete solitude and the eternal sublunar silence, plenty of quiet... But it did not replace serenity. Serenity was the state of mind in serene nirvana, and these three had come here to work and brought with them heaps of worries. But the quiet helped. Here, in the office paneled with light oak, they were making the most important decisions without getting distracted by minutia.

"I believe," Orlando Chavez said, "you have already been informed about the emergency situation with the _Lark_. Yesterday and today, at 2200 Zulu, the cruiser failed to make contact. We don't know what happened to it within the last two days, when the ship was cruising near Jupiter. None of the previous radio-communications caused alarm. The mission was going as planned, and they had set up twenty-eight buoys."

Chavez supervised the First Fleet, and everything related to the _Lark_ was in his purview. The three admirals in charge of the USF had been appointed by the Security Council: one from North America, Europe, and Russia (officially known as the Eurasian Union) each. This makeup reflected the alignment of political forces on Earth and had not changed in three decades, since the days of Young, Robin, and Ilyin, whose portraits adorned the office's wall. Everything that remained overboard–the Arab world and the Kurd Sultanate, China and its satellites, India and forty African nations–mattered on the planetary surface, but not in space.

Timokhin represented Russia in the triumvirate, Joseph Haley was Canadian, and Chavez was a Castilian from Francospain. He was, however, a British-style Castilian: emotionless, cool, and calculating. Even now, while reporting about the possible loss of a cruiser, he remained as calm as the ancient lions at the entrance into the Zed area.

"Any thoughts as to the cause?" Haley asked.

Chavez shrugged.

"You know, Joe, that communication equipment is very reliable and triple-redundant. So I assume the worst. The reactor–"

"Reactors don't usually explode," uttered Timokhin.

"But there are precedents."

"Yes, but they're not frequent in space." Timokhin closed his eyes, remembering. "In '42, on the Mars-Luna route, the explosion of an Italian transport, a TR-15 reactor, old and unreliable. Same thing in '54, a Chinese tub, same reactor model. Discontinued at the end of the 40s, but they continued flying with it for another decade. The most recent case is the loss of a Brazilian ship in '79. A rare situation, a micrometeorite collision. The magnetic bottles were knocked out, the reactor went out of control, and the plasma destroyed the engine... All other problems happened near gravity wells and in atmosphere, during take-off and landing. Venus, Earth, Mercury, Mars... the Asteroid Belt, of course..."

"Nothing happens to our ships in space," Haley noted. "Nothing, ever. Everything is fine in the fleet."

Chavez calmly nodded. Apparently, he took Haley's words to be a statement of fact, not a rebuke. Everything really was fine in the fleet. Of course, the fleet experienced casualties from the forces of nature, and from human folly and evil, aggressiveness and fanaticism. The first happened most frequently on Venus with its unpredictable furious storms, the second usually took place on Earth, when providing air support for counter-terrorism operations. But in space, outside the atmosphere, USF supremacy was absolute. Besides, the accumulated experience of operating fusion drives had made them extremely reliable.

"Your proposals?" Timokhin asked, glancing at Chavez, already suspecting which answer he would get.

"Obviously, we need to investigate this incident and do it fast, very thoroughly and in secret. We still have time, the _Lark_ was not expected to return for another month.

Chavez's cheek suddenly twitched, and Timokhin realized that he was hiding his tension. Possibly, it was the desperation and the feeling of guilt; after all, there had been no cases of cruisers disappearing in the entire history of the USF. But the Castilian admiral's voice remained calm.

"There are two options for a rapid investigation. We can send the _Barracuda_ to Jupiter, the cruiser is currently on patrol beyond the Asteroid Belt, in a very convenient location. There is another ship in the region, the science ship _Copernicus_, on her way to Mars after completing her work near Jupiter. The second option is to send it with our cruiser, if the heads of the expedition don't mind. There are planetologists with specialized equipment aboard. I have made inquiries, and they have a probe capable of handling high pressure."

"Something like a bathyscaphe?" Haley asked.

"Yes."

"Do you think that the _Lark_ could have gone down into Jupiter's atmosphere?"

"I am not ruling it out, although this maneuver seems insane. Cassidy is an experienced navigator."

Silence fell. The _Barracuda_ was assigned to the Third Fleet, supervised by Timokhin, and the ultimate decision was his. Frowning, he grumbled, "Maybe it's time to think about building a base near Jupiter. What's wrong with Ganymede? Or Callisto? They'll do... But that's later. I think the _Barracuda_ should go alone. These planetologists can't be turned around so quickly; a course change like that requires approval, and we will end up losing time. Not to mention the secrecy... I agree with Chavez, if the _Lark_ has been destroyed, then we need to find out the cause and not rush to reveal the information. All in good time."

"Well, that's what we have always done," Haley said, looking at the portraits. "Ever since the era of Young, Robin, and Ilyin. The fleet's internal matter is the fleet's internal matter. Isn't that right, my colleagues?"

When the admirals had gone to the elevator, Timokhin turned around and looked at the stone king-faced lions in tall tiaras. Their faces and eyes were inscrutable, but he got the impression that they were portending trouble.


	5. Chapter 4

_This is a fan translation of _Invasion_ (Вторжение) by Mikhail Akhmanov, currently only available in Russian and, because of the author's passing in 2019, unlikely to ever be published in English. This is the first book in a six-book series called _Arrivals from the Dark_ (Пришедшие из мрака), which also has a six-book spin-off series called _Trevelyan's Mission_ (Миссия Тревельяна)._

_I claim no rights to the contents herein._

* * *

**Chapter 4**

Space near Jupiter's orbit

He was lying on something soft and elastic, luxuriating his body. This feeling was not related to weightlessness; he could feel the surface bending under him, the weight of his arms and legs, and his many years of experience were telling him that the gravity here was about point-eight g. Strange! The last thing he remembered was the unbearable weight, pain and something else, something terrible, irreparable. There was no pain or weight now, but the vague image looming at the edge of his consciousness was depriving him of calm. Gritting his teeth, he pushed through the fog of oblivion until the veil parted. Then he saw.

He saw the hull of the _Lark_ with hundreds of holes, saw the air coming out of the torn openings, swirling and turning into white snowflakes.

Groaning in frustration, Litvin opened his eyes.

A dark spherical dome floated far above. Its bottomless depth concealed the distance; it seemed as if he could touch the dark surface with his hands, but, at the same time, Litvin understood that it was about ten meters away. He rose up on an elbow, turned his head, looking around. Not the Vulture's tight cockpit, not his cabin aboard the cruiser, not the bridge lit up by the glow of the screen... What was it?

The compartment was spacious and looked like a dumbbell or two oval bottles connected by their necks. He was in the rear wall, soft to the touch. McNeil and Corcoran were lying a meter away from him. Seeing them, Litvin felt relief. Here and now, they were everything: comrades-in-arms, friends, his crew, all of humanity. Abby was curled up in a fetal position, Corcoran had spread out his arms, but both appeared to be breathing. Their jumpsuits were intact, and he did not notice any traces of blood.

From the back wall, smoothly transitioning into the ceiling dome, the space narrowed into a bottleneck, a short and fairly wide hallway; behind it, from what Litvin could see, was an identical chamber. Something was moving in it, some vague silhouettes catching his attention for a moment.

Not attempting to take a closer look at them, Litvin felt his left hand with his right, then touched his leg and ribs. The jumpsuit was punctured in these areas, and dried bloodstains were visible around the small holes. He rolled up his sleeves, unzipped his jumpsuit, but did not find any traces on his skin. He then crawled up to Richard and Abby, listened to their breathing, touched each of their carotid arteries and determined that they were fine. The pulse was even, the breath was steady and deep; not unconscious, just in a deep sleep.

Something was missing, though. Litvin painfully furrowed his brow, staring at the sleepers' faces, then hit his chest with his fist, touched McNeil's red hair, patted Corcoran on the shoulder and...

His hand froze in midair. Rodriguez! Where was Rodriguez?

Litvin looked around the chamber again. Rodriguez wasn't here.

Getting up, he hobbled to the hallway.

It was more like an opening five meters wide. Getting closer, Litvin noticed that it was partitioned by a crystal-clear membrane, slightly shimmering in the light coming from outside. The light's source remained unclear, but the section behind the membrane was brightly lit, as if someone had turned on powerful floodlights above. Touching the barrier with his palms, Litvin felt it bend at his efforts, made one more step and froze.

There were three figures in the other chamber. Definitely people, he decided; his eyes darted to their figures and faces, spotting similarities, looking for traits of likeness. Tall, white-skinned, with proportional limbs and, seemingly, five-fingered... But their faces made them difficult to mistake them for any human ethnicity: the one standing in front had an extremely pointed chin, his eyes were spaced too far apart, and the whites of his eyes were a shade of blue with the gray iris being lost in them. The nose was almost European, but the mouth outline was very different: the middle was lower, and the center of the upper lip came forward over the lower, looking like a beak. The figure of this being, dressed in a leotard, looked thin, fragile, but graceful, and he was handsome, despite the odd features. This was likely how elves were often imagined: porcelain-white skin, long, dark hair with a greenish hue, and mysterious eyes without pupils...

The pair standing behind him looked different. Hairless, strong, with wide faces and almost erased features, they were as similar as twins. Their clothes were also different, something that looked like armor, leaving arms and legs open. They were wearing wide, smooth bracelets on their wrists and under their knees. Big, muscular thighs and shoulders, hard mouths, dispassionate faces... Guards, Litvin realized. That first one looked like an elf, but these guys were almost like trolls, and he would never call them good-looking. But they were definitely of the same species: the same shade of skin and the same odd-looking eyes he couldn't quite catch... Then again, the guards weren't looking at him; their leader in skin-tight clothing was.

The feeling of unreality momentarily pierced Litvin. The three beings standing behind the screen of elastic film were not of Earth; the rays of the terrestrial sun had never touched their snow-white faces and bodies, Earth's air had never poured into their lungs, Earth's waters had never sated their thirst, Earth's green forests had never caressed their eyesight. Perhaps, they had seen light on a planet of Arcturus or Barnard's Star, on the worlds of Procyon or Vega, Altair or Rigel, on the other side of the darkness and the cold that stretched for light years... But they were still people, and that was so surprising and so wonderful! So wonderful! Of course, if one forgot about the destroyed _Lark_, about B.J., Prizzi, Chevreuse, Bondarenko, Seidel, young István Szabó, and the hundred and thirty other dead in the belly of the lost ship.

Litvin did remember them.

Slapping himself on the chest, he extended a finger, then pointed to Richard and Abby and extended two more. He added a fourth finger, spread them out and shook his hand in front of the membrane.

"There were four of us, understand! Where's Rodriguez? Where?"

At the Baikonur School, Litvin had taken a xenology course, where he had been taught how to communicate with sentient ants, spiders, birds, and octopuses. But his task turned out to be easier; he encountered people, not octopods, and not insects or avians. It was very likely that their psychology and physiology wasn't too different from human norms, and that gave him the basis for contact. At least using sign language, which could sometimes be more understandable and expressive than words: a closed fist meant a threat, an open hand indicated good will, while standing on one's knees with one's head bent low was a submissive position. Counting on the fingers was also a universal sign, at least for humanoids.

The guard trolls didn't move, but the elf, raising his thin hand, pointed up. The light dimmed, and the dome above Litvin's head suddenly displayed the depth of space, showing familiar constellations, Jupiter's moons, and the giant planet itself; it seemed as if the white gas sphere with a red mark was hanging under the ceiling, spinning leisurely and smoothly. From far away, a cylinder with many rectangular structures hanging off it, obviously an artificial but not a terrestrial construction. Then Jupiter and its moons disappeared, leaving only the stars and the alien ship; finally, even it vanished, enshrouded by a shimmering veil. Five silver sparks were moving towards it: one larger and four tiny ones, joined in pairs. The _Lark_ and the Vultures, Litvin realized.

From the shimmering, hiding the alien, a dotted line stretched out, swelled up into a bubble, captured the human ships and began to quickly contract like a tentacle pulling in its prey. _The red alert!_ a thought flickered through Litvin's head. _This is when B.J. declared red alert and then fired the swarms..._ As if listening to him, six spots separated from the cruiser, merged and, unfolding, the cloud fell on the flickering screen. Millions of ice crystals, flying at a great speed, capable of riddling any armor with holes... The veil surrounding the aliens reflected them, doubling or tripling the initial momentum. As if in a dream, Litvin watched as the volley fired by the cruiser rushed back, enveloped the _Lark_, brushed two of the smaller sparks with its edge, and melted into the darkness. The last thing they showed him was the Vulture with the mangled hull; a dead pilot lay in the shreds of his cocoon, and beads of blood spun in front of his frozen face.

Rodriguez... He would never again lie on the beaches of Acapulco, never again would he watch girls' legs...

A clump caught in Litvin's throat. Clenching his fists, he tried to cross the invisible barrier, made a few steps, but the membrane threw him back. He bit his lip, stared hatefully at the elf, and suddenly threw his head back. Something strange was happening in his skull. Pain? No... Pressure? Also unlikely... He discovered that he had no words to describe these sensations, probably because no human has ever experienced anything like this, which meant that this feeling lay beyond the edge of human experience. Something alien was knocking and breaking into his mind, vague images flashed and sounds broke through the hum, but hearing and sight had nothing to do with it. _That beaked bastard is prying into my brain!_ suddenly realized Litvin. Maybe an ordinary mental defense would work, some effort, monotonous and boring, like an autumn rain. He began to recite the Fibonacci sequence, and the weird sensations disappeared.

But something had remained, most definitely! Litvin couldn't say for sure if it was a consequence of the interrupted psychic link or his own conclusions, but either way he understood that he was on a starship, that this ship was enormous, and that the beings controlling it were similar to humans. Maybe not in every respect, but the similarity in appearance was obvious and scary rather than pleasant. One could build many hypotheses on how a sentient octopus thought and what it wanted, but in case of people, there were significantly fewer options. Actually, only two, and they had been described by the ancients: _homo homini deus est_,_ homo homini lupus est_ [Man is god to man, man is wolf to man].

Which one to choose? More accurately, which one would these elves and trolls choose?

The man in the leotard touched his chest with both hands and croaked in a sharp clicking voice, "B'ino F'ata." Then he spoke slower, "Bino Faata".

The name of their species, Litvin realized. The confidence in interpreting it thus was completely irrational, and yet he somehow knew he wasn't wrong: he hadn't been told a personal name, but a more general concept. Copying the alien's gesture, he too touched his palm to his chest and spoke.

"Human." He then pointed at the elf and slapped his jumpsuit again. "Humanoid. You're humanoid, I'm humanoid."

"Bino Faata," the elf repeated, bowing his head and touching his chest with his left hand. He stretched out his right hand to Litvin, turned his wrist, as if pushing something away, and grunted, "Bino Tegari!"

He then turned and disappeared in a passage, escorted by the guards.

Chuckling, Litvin shook his head.

"Well, my alien brother... So, you say that you're a Bino Faata, and I'm a Bino Tegari! And we have about as much in common as an eagle with a turtle..."

Hearing rustling behind him, he turned around. McNeil was already sitting, Corcoran was lying, but his eyes were open.

"Paul! Where are we, Paul?"

Litvin crossed the room, noting that the distance from the membrane to the back wall is sixteen paces, and kneeled near Abby.

"Are you okay, Abigail?" The girl nodded. "Richard, can you hear me? Are you awake?"

"Completely. Where did we end up, Commander?"

"On an alien ship. There," Litvin waved in the direction of the hallway, "is a barrier. Similar to a transparent synthflax, it bends but doesn't allow through. Above us is a holographic projector. While you were snoozing, I watched a movie. Their version of the events."

McNeil's lips quivered.

"The _Lark_?.."

"Destroyed. Their ship is protected by a force screen, something like a deflector shield. B.J. fired the swarms, and it threw the volley back, I think with an ever greater speed than before. The armor was punctured... I saw it myself while still in the Vulture..." Litvin shook his head, as if driving away a nightmarish vision. "The edge of the cloud caught Rodriguez... they showed me that... I got just a bit: my arm, my leg, and my side... And no traces! Here, look!" He rolled up his jumpsuit sleeve. "What about you?"

"Nothing, apparently." McNeil, crouching, stared at her knees. "I only remember the weight... maybe fifteen _g_s... A lot, too much... I was knocked out. Almost immediately."

"Me too," Corcoran nodded, massaging his temples. "I don't remember anything like that from the simulators. Even my bones were creaking!"

"Yeah, too much," Litvin agreed. "They were in too much of a hurry when they pulled us into their boat. A bit more, and they'd have gotten corpses instead of captives. In violation of the Geneva Conventions... But I doubt it would've stopped them."

McNeil shuddered, as if just now realizing Litvin's words.

"Them? Who? Who are they?"

"People. Exactly like us, bipeds without feathers. Everything's in its right place: ears, nose, eyes, they even got eyebrows. Their appearance is exotic, of course... Well, you'll see."

"So, people..." Corcoran said gloomily. "They caught us with a gravity noose, and we shot swarms at them... Well, and they..." He unzipped his jumpsuit, pulled out a crucifix on his neck and whispered, "Lord, the almighty creator, accept into Your heavenly kingdom the soul of Luis Rodriguez and all the others with whom we shared shelter and food and traveled between the worlds created by Your will... Forgive their sins, for You are merciful... Let it be counted that they fell as warriors, and even if their deeds were in error, forgive that too. They raised their hand on Your other creations out of ignorance, for fear before the unknown is in man's nature. Only you are never mistaken and know when to raise Your sword and who to lower it on. Amen!"

"Amen," McNeil repeated. She, like the Austrian Corcoran, was Catholic.

Silence fell, but Litvin seemed as if the words of the prayer were still ringing in his ears. Maybe it wasn't that bad, he thought. Maybe the destruction of the _Lark_ had been a tragic misunderstanding, the result of the same fear that Corcoran just mentioned. Maybe we were mistaken, same as they... Trust was such a fragile thing! It took years to nurture, and it could be destroyed in a second...

"Speaks!" suddenly sharply and clearly came from under the dome. "Speaks more! Speaks much!"

Litvin raised his eyes. Something flickered and spun under the dome, turning into an enormous head with an open mouth. The face was strange: Corcoran and McNeil's traits mixed with his own.

"They're listening to us, trying to learn the language," Richard said. "Smart guys! Maybe, it's better..."

He put a finger to his lips, Abby and Litvin nodded. Not another word in Russian or German! It was not difficult for Litvin; the habit to converse in English, the fleet's official language, had become natural after many years.

A memory worried him. Instinctively touching his temple, he muttered, "They call themselves Bino Faata. And, I think, they possess a ternary signaling system..."

"Telepathy?" McNeil frowned.

"No, not mind-reading, more like a psychic link. But it doesn't work too well with us, at least with me. It can be blocked. The multiplication table works well."

"Curious," Corcoran said. "Mental link, interstellar drive, and this field that pushed away the swarm... our sensors, finally... we didn't see them: not through optics and not on screens... It looks like they have us beat on all counts! Better not quarrel with them. What do you think, Paul?"

"We might not have a choice," Litvin replied, unable to get the image of the dying _Lark_ out of his mind. He took a deep breath. The air seemed cool and fresh, like in the mountains, somewhere at the one kilometer altitude. One more clue that Earth was a perfect place for aliens.

They discussed this thought, then McNeil raised her head and stared at the ceiling dome.

"Hey, do you hear me? We need water... Water, food, equipment for defecation."

"Repeat! More words! Many words!" came from above.

McNeil repeated.

"Our Red has a practical American mind," Corcoran smiled.

"I just can't hold it anymore," the girl grunted, looking at the colored pictures being displayed on the ceiling. The instructions were simple and clear: each of the side walls had compartments hidden by membranes; on the left were the facilities, on the right was the nutrition unit with a low octagonal table. Peering into the left chamber and marveling at the odd-looking form of the waste-disposal unit, they went to the table. On its translucent top, silver sparks were flickering, coming from inside, where a turtle shell picture was displayed.

"Here is the actuator," McNeil put her hand near the turtle. "Now this thing will start working. One, two..."

A holographic image of a dish with a grayish mass appeared over the table. The mass was moving saintly.

"Looks like worms," Corcoran said. "Huge! As thick as my finger!"

McNeil pursed her lips in disgust, "That's not for me. I'm not eating this crap."

Her hand once again stretched out over the table, and the gray mass disappeared, turning into the hologram of a vase with pink beads.

"Caviar. Only big, from frogs the size of a cow," Corcoran commented. "I'd eat it, but I'm not sure that this will work for us. For our metabolism and embryogenesis."

"They healed me, so they've obviously figured out our biochemistry." Litvin slapped the table, and bowl with the beads floated out of the opening in the center. He took one, bit into it, and grunted approvingly. "A fruit or some kind of berry, like a grape but without skin... Tasty! Try it, Abigail! You don't have stuff like that in California."

"I'm from Ohio, not California," McNeil informed him and busily began to eat.

When the fruit vase was emptied, the air in the compartment started to be clouded by a fog coming out, seemingly, straight through the walls. It smelled of something familiar and pleasant, like fresh spring leaves, or apple blossoms, and, inhaling it, Litvin was transported onto the banks of the Dnieper, under the fortress tower where he used to go with a fishing rod in years gone by. His head dropped to his chest, his eyes began to close, but, while submitting to slumber, he had time to notice how Abby was slowly falling on top of Richard. They fell asleep right at the table: the men sat, leaning on the soft wall lining, and the girl lay with her cheek on Corcoran's thigh.

The smell disappeared. A tall, thin man in tight-fitting clothes came through the entrance membrane, followed by another, broad-shouldered, powerfully built, with bracelets on arms and legs. The one who entered first was old; his lips drooped heavily, no longer reminiscent of a beak but an elephant trunk, his cheeks were wrinkled, and his hair was faded and greenish, like withering grass. But, despite these obvious signs of advanced age, he moved with the grace of a young man.

The old man moved towards the sleepers and froze, tilting his head to one shoulder. It seemed as if he had also fallen asleep; his eyes were closed, his hands were hanging limp, his breath was inaudible. He stood in this posture for about fifteen minutes, then his eyelids lifted, his mouth stretched, and new wrinkles ran out from the edges of the lips. A human would call it a smile, but he would be mistaken, for the old man did not know how to smile. Besides, what he was currently feeling was not a bout of fun but annoyance.

Stretching out a thin hand, he pointed at Corcoran, turned and headed for the exit. The guard effortlessly picked up the sleeping man and followed. The membrane closed behind him.

"Richard! Paul, wake up! They took Richard"

McNeil's scream awoke Litvin. He stretched out his legs, rubbed his numb back, then glanced at the chronometer on the cuff of his jumpsuit. He'd slept for less than an hour, but felt himself alert, as if he'd rested all night. Whatever they'd been knocked out with, this thing was nothing like the "pacification gas", after which people tended to throw up and feel dizzy. Litvin had once had a taste of the gas as a cadet; it was mandatory training procedure.

Getting up, he crossed the compartment and looked in the facilities chamber. Corcoran wasn't there. There was a waste-disposal unit, looking like the back of a two-humped camel; there was a lattice frame with lots of nozzles, likely for spraying water; there was something else, an inclined platform under a cover, a blue glow coming from it. It was absolutely impossible to get lost in all this machinery.

Abby had already come to and was watching Litvin with an intense look. Despite her youth and inexperience, this was not her first year as a pilot, Abigail McNeil was a marine officer, a post not for the faint of heart. Litvin knew he could count on her.

He came out into the middle of the chamber and, raising his head, stood under the dome.

"Where is our friend? Where's Corcoran?"

Silence.

"Is my question understandable?"

"Understanding is limited. Require different wording."

Possibly, this sharp, croaking voice belonged to an intermediary machine. Even likely, decided Litvin; only a computer could figure out an alien language by listening to their conversations for a few hours. He estimated the computational power of such a device and felt a chill. Then he spoke slowly.

"Where is the third man who was with us?"

"No term to designate place."

Definitely a machine, came a thought. A computer mind, no matter who designed it, followed the laws of logic: if it was asked "where", then the question referred to a place.

"The third man, who was with us, has disappeared. Why? For what purpose?"

This wording had been understood. The dome croaked, "Removed for research."

"What sort of research?"

"Insufficient terms to answer."

"It's talking better," Litvin said, turning to McNeil. "Proper sentence structure."

"Just not enough information," she noted gloomily.

"Don't be strict with it. It's just a machine."

They fell silent, exchanging worried looks. The voice sounded again,

"Bino Tegari must speak. More words, better capability to understand. Mutual interest: ask questions, answer questions."

"You're right about that, you piece of metal," Litvin agreed. "Tell me, what does 'Bino Tegari' mean?"

"Sentient aliens."

"Not as bad as I thought... Does the term 'Bino Faata' also have a meaning?"

"Sentient beings of the Third Phase."

"Is the Third Phase a planet? A stellar body?"

"No. A phase of civilization development."

_Now it's talking,_ Litvin thought. _Well, let's ask about a more important subject._

"The man who was removed... Could the research be dangerous for him?"

"The question is not understood."

"Could the research harm him? Disturb the functionality of his body?"

"Insufficient terms to answer."

Litvin switched to another topic, "What is the goal of the Bino Faata in the Solar System? What do you want, guys?"

"Insufficient terms to answer."

He asked a few more questions, then ended the dialogue. According to the computer, there were catastrophically insufficient terms. Especially when Litvin attempted to find out something of importance.

"This tin can is playing us for fools," Abby muttered.

Litvin nodded, sat down beside her and began to tell her about the first time he was landing on Venus back in '83. Transport ships and weak frigates could not perform this; the task of supplying the USF research stations and personnel replacements was done by cruisers. But even a cruiser would not risk diving into the raging atmosphere without scouting it first. The problem was that deep scans failed in the cloud masses, and a ship could end up in a cyclone or a downdraft between the cloud layers, beyond that, everything came down to luck: either the ship would be smashed against a mountain, or dunked into lava, or thrown into the ocean, although the last one was survivable. That was why cruisers dropped scouts in small craft; they were the best of the best, but were partly kamikazes, if they carelessly got close to turbulent areas. However, there were plenty of volunteers; any pilot who simply managed to return from Venus was already considered to be an ace. Litvin had gotten lucky, he had come back.

McNeil seemed to be both listening and not listening to him; her eyes kept darting from the dark dome to the entrance membrane, but Litvin stubbornly continued the tale. On the one hand, it allowed them to brighten up the wait; on the other, it provided a lot of information to the alien computer. Mutual interest, as he'd been hinted: ask questions, answer questions.

He switched to describing the vortices spinning his Vulture, when two guards appeared at the membrane. Then two more, supporting Richard; they passed through the opening, lowered him, turned around, and disappeared. Corcoran, moving unsteadily, made several steps. His face was strange: the eyes were wandering, the corner of the mouth quivered, a trickle of saliva came down the chin.

Litvin and Abby ran to him.

"What's wrong?" McNeil's hands came down on Corcoran's shoulders.

"Nothing," he said with an uncertain look and repeated when they sat him down near a wall. "Nothing."

Litvin frowned.

"Nothing? Where were you, Richard?"

Corcoran rubbed his temple. The spasmodic trembling of his lips grew stronger, but he managed to force out, "Don't remember well... Light... a lot of light... sounds, rustling, noises... something flashing like in a stroboscope... too fast to see..." His traits suddenly twisted, and it took Litvin a moment to realize that Richard was smiling. "I... I followed your advice... you said, remember?.. About the multiplication table... I was solving a problem... the falling of a body in axial gravity..."

"They got into your head?" Litvin asked, feeling goose bumps on his back. "This research, was it a psychic experiment? What were they doing with you?"

"Light..." Corcoran muttered again. His eyes went blank, the skin on his face sagged, saliva began to trickle down his lips. "Light and rustling... Eyes... without pupils... hair... green... If the endless strand of a gravity source... if a body... falling..."

The muttering became completely unintelligible. Richard was falling asleep.

Abby, pale as chalk, was silent. Her red hair was running down her shoulders, her mouth was gripped so hard that her lips were barely visible.

Litvin rubbed her back. He did not involve himself into his subordinates' private affairs, and he did not know about the true feelings of Lieutenants Abigail McNeil and Richard Corcoran. It looked like it wasn't a passing fling but something more serious...

"Let him rest. Sleep is the best medicine," he said, raising his head and staring up into the ceiling. Threats and curses were ready to slip off his tongue, but, instead, Litvin quietly said, "I am addressing the Bino Faata leaders and the entire crew of the ship. Any experiments on humans will be considered a criminal act on our world. Do you want to fight us? An entire planet? That is an unwise decision. We know how to fight."

_Homo homini lupus est_, he added to himself.

The intermediary computer remained silent. A minute passed, then another, finally a voice grated above, "The information has been noted. Please state your..." the computer paused, trying to find an appropriate word, "your status."

"Which status are you asking about? Position in society?"

"No. Limited sentience or full sentience."

"Full!" Litvin roared, momentarily succumbing to anger. "Can't get any more sentient than that! Mature, sentient, capable! And the people with me are the same!"

"There is a ksa among you. Does your species have fully-sentient ksa?"

"I don't understand. What is a ksa?"

McNeil stirred.

"It's talking about me, Paul. I think."

"Ksa are beings capable of producing offspring," the computer confirmed. "Repeating the question: does your species have fully-sentient ksa?"

"All women are sentient. Just as sentient as men," Litvin said wearily. He was tired of this game of pointless questions and answers. Humans did, of course, differ by sex, status, and character; there were smart humans and not so much, good and evil, possessing power and having nothing except a pair of hands, but all of them, men and women of all races, peoples, and tribes were sentient beings. Except, possibly, for obvious imbeciles and other clinical cases... This axiom had not been called into question, at least in Litvin's lifetime. Humans suffered from many vices, resulting, without a doubt, from their sentience; after all, there were no terrorists, corrupt politicians, violent murderers, fanatics, money-grabbers, and power-seekers among animals. But even the most shortsighted of the homo sapiens, unwilling to know the consequences of their evil, violence, cruelty, were still fully sentient; it was just that their minds had turned to short-term personal gain.

"Can it be any different?.." Litvin mused. "Especially with beings so similar to humans? Striving to explore the universe and reaching astounding heights, unprecedented achievements, wandering through the galactic darkness from one star to another..."

But what did it mean, "partly sentient"? A robot-android, a slave, an idiot? A moron cloned with a defective brain? Or a representative of another species, say, a creature artificially made from alien apes?

Pondering this, Litvin began to nod off.

Abby shrieked.

"Paul! What's wrong with him, Paul?

Instantly awake, he rushed to Corcoran. His face had gone blue, his mouth was wide open, but it seemed as if Richard couldn't get enough air; rather, he was struggling to breathe. His eyes rolled back, the cramped muscles froze, and a horrifying rasp came from his throat. Asphyxia, Litvin realized, suffocation! He felt helpless, without the automed, destroyed with the ruined Vulture, without medicine, without the doctors, who had died aboard the _Lark_. They would've helped... definitely would have!

Corcoran's skin turned a gray-bluish color, the agony began. McNeil was holding his shoulders, while Litvin, unzipping his jumpsuit, massaged his chest and neck.

"Call them," Abby said in a dead voice. "Call them, Paul. Maybe they..."

"Our friend is dying," Litvin said loudly. "Can you do something? We don't understand what's wrong with him and lack the necessary means. We're powerless!"

"The brain's respiratory center is paralyzed," came from the dome. "Healing is impossible. Your brains... lacking the term... no contact with... lacking the term... We are as powerless as you."

Corcoran went limp. The rasp in his throat was gone, his cheeks started to go pale, his frozen eyes were staring at nothing. This transformation was so fast, so sudden! Like all marines, Litvin had seen death more than once and still could never get used to it. Especially when those close to him died. Yuri Savelyev on Mercury, during a solar flare, Guram Kavsadze and Fred Bene in the Asteroid Belt, Mark Goldoni on Earth, from a terrorist sniper's bullet... All of them had died young, just like Richard Corcoran. He was twenty-six. Or was he twenty-seven? Litvin could not remember exactly.

Abby jumped up, glared up into the dome, and shook her clenched fists.

"No term?! No term, you bastards?! Damn you for what you've done to him! May you never see the blue skies! May every road be your last! May your reactor explode right under your feet! May..."

The smell of the fresh leaves spread through the air, and Litvin saw the girl's knees buckle. Falling silent, she slumped to the floor, and he began to fall as well. The chamber with the Corcoran lying by the wall swam before his eyes, there was ringing in his ears, and sweet oblivion entangled his mind and body. A second later, he was on the banks of the Dnieper, then the view of the river changed, and Litvin, overcome by slumber, decided that it was the Danube. He seemed to recall that Richard's mother lived in a town on the Danube... She would need to be told, he thought. It was a commanding officer's duty to inform the family of the deceased. The same would have to be done for the crew of the _Lark_... He was the senior officer from among the survivors... A sad duty! Maybe Abby would help...

But when he awoke, Abby was no longer with him. Abby was gone, and so was Richard Corcoran's body.


	6. Chapter 5

_This is a fan translation of _Invasion_ (Вторжение) by Mikhail Akhmanov, currently only available in Russian and, because of the author's passing in 2019, unlikely to ever be published in English. This is the first book in a six-book series called _Arrivals from the Dark_ (Пришедшие из мрака), which also has a six-book spin-off series called _Trevelyan's Mission_ (Миссия Тревельяна)._

_I claim no rights to the contents herein._

* * *

**Chapter 5**

Earth and Luna

The regular USF press conferences had always taken place in its New York representation, a three-story annex to the UN skyscraper known as the Bunker. Despite the modest external look, the building was comfortable and extremely durable; the walls, like that of a space cruiser, were layered with a composite, the windows had transparent armor, and even the windows themselves were small, like portholes. The only way to destroy such a structure was with a megaton bomb, and not even the Crimson Jihad or the Neoluddites had such capabilities. So, despite the frequent sabotages and explosions at the UN headquarters, the Bunker was a citadel of peace and security.

The hall for meetings with the media was located on the second floor and fit about a hundred and fifty people. There were usually only a hundred: journalists from the _Washington Post_, the _New York Herald_, the _Chicago Tribune_, their European and Asian colleagues, as well as commentators from three dozen leading TV channels.

Sam Clemens, the chief spokesman, had been singing like a bird in front of them, talking about the peacekeeping mission of the USF, about the romanticism of space travel, about the magnetic screens thrown up above the Earth for protection against solar flares. Occasionally, at these meetings, they would talk about more sensational events: the fight against drug smuggling to the Asteroid Belt mines or the prevention of yet another sabotage by the Children of Allah. Then there would be more reporters, but there was enough space for everyone; nobody would be crowding the aisles or climbing on other people's heads.

However, today, the hall was overflowing. Clemens, himself an experienced newspaper shark, could smell the tension, and this, perhaps for the first time, scared him. Or rather, it alarmed him. The voices were too loud, the movements were too sharp, there were too many TV cameras, microphones, and unknown faces, which meant that he did not know what to expect from them... Besides the Shareholders (the nickname given to the creators of the USF: Russia, the States, and the European nations), there were also Latinos (looked like everyone from Mexico to Chile), Arabs, Indians, Africans, and a ton of Asians. Clemens had nothing against the Japanese, considering them civilized people, but the rest, the rest!.. Just take the Chinese, for example, a whole platoon of them, and all dressed in blue field jackets! And their faces were all the same! How would he tell them apart?

He came out on the podium with a grim look, anticipating a scandal. Bad, very bad! Sam Clemens was paid to keep the scandals to a minimum, and publicity to a maximum.

Clemens greeted the audience, gave an overview of the events for the past month, ignoring the noise, and offered to answer questions. A tan, skinny guy got up; or rather, he was raised up and placed, standing, on the back of a chair.

"Kostakis, the _Athens News_. There are rumors going around about some kind of stellar body that has invaded the Solar System. What can you tell us about that?"

Clemens stuck out his lips in annoyance.

"I do not comment on rumors. But if you are talking about the _CosmoSpiegel_ article that caused a hysteria in the media the day before yesterday, then I would advise you to avoid being so gullible."

A meaty lady in enormous glasses got up next.

"Diana Paley, the _London Express_. I assure you, sir, that we do not suffer from an excess of gullibility. However, the _Spiegel_ informed us about a flash near Jupiter, observed by Liu Chang, an astronomer from Shanghai and a scientist aboard the Kepler Observatory. This is specific data, Mr. Clemens, which can be verified. Has your department done that?"

"Of course, madam."

A roar rose up in the hall, immediately quieting when Clemens raised his hands and loudly shouted, "It has been verified!"

Three dozen reporters jumped up from their seats, demanding to be recognized, but they were all drowned out by Medvedev from the _Moscow Fires_. He was on a first-name basis with Clemens; they frequently shared caviar and vodka in Russian taverns. There were as many of them in New York as there were Italian pizzerias.

"Sam, don't beat around the bush! There was nothing about this in the overview!"

"The overview consists of reliable facts," Clemens deflected. "As for Liu Chang, he is not a scientist aboard the Kepler Observatory, merely an inexperienced trainee. Additionally, we have established that no one sent him to the Kepler and that his papers were likely faked. There is no specialist by that name at the Shanghai University."

Now the Chinese were shouting. Their voices reminded Clemens of a howling pack of cats during mating season.

"Mao Chen, the _People's Daily_. This is a vile insinuation, Mr. Clemens! Its goal is to besmirch the science of the Heavenly Kingdom! I know for a fact that there have been no requests from the USF to the Shanghai University!"

"There are other channels besides the official ones," Clemens noted.

The blue field jackets jumped up, and Clemens was immediately hit by their cannonade.

"What are you implying?"

"Who is working for you? The CIA? Russian intelligence?"

"Or maybe the Mossad?"

"Or MI6?"

Clemens waved his hand again.

"Relax, ladies and gentlemen, relax! Take a look on the Ultranet, there is a complete listing of all personnel of all scientific institutions in the world, including their orbital affiliates. If you find an astronomer named Liu Chang in it, then I will eat my hat with mayonnaise." He waited for the noise to die down and spoke, "I confirm that something strange happened near Jupiter. I am not referencing the mythical Liu Chang but Dr. John Bradford, the head of the Kepler Observatory. This event is being investigated, and, in a month or two, you will be informed about the results. Are you satisfied?"

"No!" came the unified yell, followed by Patrick McCaffrey, a reporter for the JBC network, getting to his feet. Clemens occasionally tasted Irish whiskey with him.

"Don't twist the words, Samuel! It's not so much about that damned flash but about what it means! According to the _Spiegel_, an alien ship has arrived. The article is signed by Gunther Voss, and no news slips through his fingers! This Voss is a cunning fellow. We trust him, at least half the time."

"Trust given to a swindler or a fool gives him the chance to do harm," Clemens grunted. "The Romans said so, and I am joining them. Not by half, but fully!"

"Would you have said that to Voss?" the lady in glasses from the _London Express _said. "Just like that? To his face?"

Clemens made an ironic face, "Without a doubt, lady. I would."

Then, like thunder from the blue skies, Gunther Voss rose up from the back rows. Clemens also drank with him, but not very frequently, and couldn't remember which drinks they consumed. He seemed to recall Voss preferring cognac.

"Am I being accused of being a swindler? Or a fool?" he bellowed. "And I accuse the USF of hiding information important to the survival of all of humanity!" After a dramatic pause, Voss declared, "First of all, I am prepared to confirm that my source is completely reliable. Liu Chang is not a mythical persona, he was simply working in a private firm, which isn't listed on the Ultranet, before showing up on the Kepler. He is also not an inexperienced trainee, as we are being told, but a first-grade scientist who has made a great discovery. He gave the right to inform the public about it to the _Spiegel_! An exclusive right!"

"Liu Chang! Liu Chang!" the Chinese started chanting.

Waiting for this explosion of patriotism to die down, Voss continued.

"Second, if Liu Chang is even a fraction of a percent right, then what follows from this? That his observations need to be verified on site and done so quickly. The alien could be a threat, and it would be better to meet it at Jupiter's orbit, not letting it get to Earth. This is the main task of the USF, our protector! But what do we see? What? The First Fleet is still at the Lunar Base, the Second is near Mars, and the Third is scattered from Mercury to the Asteroid Belt... No interest and no activity, and every hour is a strategic loss! And I ask!.." Voss slammed his fist on the back of a chair. "I ask, what are the USF and our admirals doing in this situation? Drinking cocktails in the officers' mess? Planning the extermination of fleas on Mars? I ask! We ask!" He glared at Clemens furiously. "Tell us, boss, has even a single ship been sent to Jupiter? And what sort of vessel is it: a powerful cruiser or a lousy frigate?"

"Don't worry, you damned quill-driver, it's the _Barracuda_!" Clemens almost shouted, but he bit his tongue. The _Barracuda_'s mission was top secret and, technically, unrelated to the mysterious flash, which Clemens didn't believe in. Unless the _Lark_ had blown up near Jupiter... Then again, even if had exploded, the explosion couldn't be detected, it would have been too far and too brief.

So, not saying a word about the _Barracuda_, Clemens remarked, "I have listened to Mr. Voss with great interest. A very, very expressive speech! But I have to disappoint you, ladies and gentlemen, no mysterious objects have been detected in the Solar System; and, as for the fleets, they are continuing to serve as per their combat schedule. You can lynch me..." "And we will!" came from the left. "But I will not tell you anything else. I will, however, remind you about the hysteria in the 1950s that lasted for seventy years. I will remind you about the thousands of con men and psychopaths who claimed to have seen flying saucers with little green men, the yeti, the Loch Ness Monster, and other marvels and wonders. Many books, photographs, and films, many eyewitnesses, and all that turned out—"

"You're going off topic, Sam!" Patrick McCaffrey shouted. "Off topic! And we need information!"

"Information! Information!" the entire hall began to chant. Then the Chinese started breaking chairs, and Clemens called for security.

After listening to the latest media announcements, Admiral Timokhin frowned discontentedly and summoned Commander Mägi, his fourth adjutant. Mägi, a native of Estlavia [A Baltic nation made up of three provinces: Estonia, Latvia, and Königsberg.], was valued for his Baltic thoroughness and reticence and had been given a fairly important position: liaison to the information department.

The adjutant appeared immediately, as if waiting on the other side of the office door. He sat in the proffered seat and froze: pale, whitish, and scrawny, like a dried Caspian roach.

"Our last press conference ended in a scandal," Timokhin said.

"Ja, sir," Mägi agreed. He usually spoke in a mix of German, English, and Russian.

"It looks like Clemens was not at his best."

"Ja. Of course."

"Where did these stupid rumors about aliens come from? Who is spreading them?"

"One Gunther Voss, sir, a columnist for the _CosmoSpiegel_."

"Their goal?"

"Money, as always. They have already made two million eulars [In 2042, the struggle between the euro and the dollar ended with the introduction of a unified American-European currency – the eular. Additionally, the British pound, the Russian ruble, the Chinese yuan, the Japanese yen, and, in some countries, the rupee and the peso, still remain.] on this news."

Timokhin toyed with his eyebrows. He was only interested in this story because it was related to the _Barracud_a's secret mission, the ship being on the fourth day of her flight to Jupiter. There were no longer any doubts about the _Lark_'s destruction, as the cruiser had failed to establish communications.

"They were talking about some sort of flash at the press conference... Do we know anything about that?"

"Ja, sir. We have received the report of Bradford, the director of the Kepler Observatory."

"And?"

"It is being examined by the science department, sir. Jarvis has the full details."

Jarvis, the nephew of some big shot USC representative on the Security Council, was his third adjutant and was responsible for liaising with the USF's scientific research corps.

"Could the flash be connected to the _Lark_?"

"Unlikely, sir. The event, if it indeed happened, was significantly more powerful."

"Have Jarvis report to me when he has the results," the Admiral ordered and, after a pause, asked, "What do you think, Mägi, is this something serious? I mean Voss's information? Should we get our intelligence involved?'

"No, sir. The usual brouhaha. It will die down in about a week."

Timokhin shook his head, then noted, "But still, Clemens was not at his best... He's getting old! It's time to find him a replacement."

"Ja, sir."

"Any suggestions?"

Mägi's thin lips stretched to his ears, and Timokhin realized that he was about to be delighted with an example of Baltic humor.

"Why not take this Voss guy? They say he's a cunning fellow!"

The fight was furious but short. The medium cruiser _Asahi_ floated at the edge of the stratosphere above the Borneo jungle near the Apo Duat Ridge [A mountain ridge in the north of the isle of Borneo; it stretches out for 500 km and rises to 2500-4000 m high; its southern part serves as the border between modern-day Malaysia and Indonesia.], and, after tracing the movements of the enemy, dropped sixteen Vultures. The fighters destroyed the outer defense grid, losing one machine, as the enemy was using highly-precise weapons, including T-16 rounds. In fact, they were the reason for the attack on the Assassin [Assassins or Neoassassins are a large militant sect that broke away from Islam at the start of the 21st century. Their prophet Al Musafar, supposedly inspired by Allah, rewrote the Quran, naming the new holy book Biran. The Biran is about as related to the Quran as _Mein Kampf_ is to the Bible.] base, as the USF had received data that there was an entire factory operating in the Apo Duat caves. Magnetic vibrators allowed them to heat up deuterium to stellar temperatures without the use of a nuclear explosion, which opened the way to the creation of miniature fusion charges; the technology was simple, and T-16 was used by rebels and terrorists of all convictions and skin colors. At least a quarter of them got their weapons from here, from the territory of the Kali Kingdom [The Kali Kingdom (not recognized by the UN) was created in 2036 when rebels annexed part of the Indonesian portion of the isle of Borneo. A reactionary Islamic nation following the Biran.].

Once the outer defenses of the mountain fortress had been destroyed, marines came down from the _Asahi_, sixteen surface teams of twenty soldiers each. Roaches, amphibious tanks, were nearly useless in the jungle, and that made the operation significantly more difficult, as the marines were attacking without the benefit of armor. Their combat suits gave them plenty of protection against bullets, but they couldn't save them from swarms or lasers.

Lieutenant Stig Olsen, commanding officer of the fourth team, took his people into one of the tunnels leading to the caves. The rest of the passages were blocked by the other teams, and, upon receiving the signal from the cruiser, they began to move ahead, pouring gas into side passages and throwing freezer bombs into vertical shafts. The Assassins desperately fought back; most of them were fanatics, blindly believing that shish-kebabs, sherbet, and a dozen virgins awaited them beyond the veil of death. They weren't bad fighters, but their mercenaries were even more dangerous; these guys wanted to stay alive, to fight through the marines and slip away into the impassable woods. Three of Olsen's marines were wounded, while his team was moving towards the industrial complex.

Once there, they placed charges, a more powerful variant of T-16, and ran away. When the troop shuttle took them up to the cruiser, the mountains shook, flames spewed out of all tunnels and cracks, and hot orange tongues began to lick trees and bushes. The Vultures descended, dropped freezers, and a blizzard began to rage in the tropical jungle. The fire died down.

Three hours later, Stig Olsen, having removed his combat armor and showered, made himself comfortable at the bar counter of the USF ground base in Singapore. He drank fragrant Jamaican rum, snacked on a pineapple and a melon, trying to forget the dark underground passages and the glares of laser beams that aimed seemingly straight between his eyes. There were about sixty guys here, those like him, wishing to get rid of extra memories; some sat alone with a bottle, others, getting into groups, talked or watched the TV screen, where the Texas Bulls were busy trouncing the Roman Gladiators.

"Glad to see you back safe, Stig," a voice rumbled behind Olsen.

He turned around, put down his glass, forced a smile, and shook Roy Bunch's enormous palm. This fellow, despite his imposing height and a powerful build, was not a marine, but served as a messenger officer in the base staff; he was also, however, most likely the eyes and ears of the security service. He wasn't present in the HQ too much, frequently disappearing for a day or even a week; apparently, running back and forth with secret orders. Marines didn't like people like that, suspecting them of snitching, so Olsen's smile was fairly cold.

Bunch splashed some whiskey for himself from the dispenser.

"Have you heard the news, Stig?"

"What news?" Olsen glanced at the TV, where the herd of the Bulls in red was breaking through the line of gold-clad Gladiators. "About this match of the century? I couldn't give a flying crap about it! Screw them... and their mother... in every hole!

"That's not news!" Bunch slowly pulled out a pocketpute [a pocket computer, also including the functionality of a phone and a medical scanner.] and touched a tiny button with a fingernail. The film screen folded open with a quiet rustle, the splash screens of information sites ran by, then the name _CosmoSpiegel_ floated out in an intricate frame and clear lines of text, silver letters on the background of the darkness of space. "This is news! We have guests, Stig. If they get to Earth, then we'll have a ton of work. Well, do you want to read it? Or should I turn on the broadcast?"

Olsen looked around, saw that two dozen people gathered behind them, and nodded.

"Turn on the sound, pal. See, the guys want to hear it too."

He took a sip from his glass and began to listen. The news was indeed amazing.


	7. Chapter 6

_This is a fan translation of _Invasion_ (Вторжение) by Mikhail Akhmanov, currently only available in Russian and, because of the author's passing in 2019, unlikely to ever be published in English. This is the first book in a six-book series called _Arrivals from the Dark_ (Пришедшие из мрака), which also has a six-book spin-off series called _Trevelyan's Mission_ (Миссия Тревельяна)._

_I claim no rights to the contents herein._

* * *

**Chapter 6**

Space between the orbits of Jupiter and Mars

_A cell, a damned cell,_ Litvin thought, feeling around the membrane covering the passage for the tenth time. It gave slightly when pressed, and if he pressed against it with all his strength, he could make a step or two before being flung back like a stone from a sling. The material looked similar to synthflax, which was used in museums, zoos, and pretty much everywhere a transparent, resilient, and impassable barrier was necessary. But it was impossible to get through a synthflax film without damaging it, and this membrane allowed people through; Litvin remembered how the guards carrying Richard had passed through it. The guards had passed, and he couldn't... So, these trolls must have a key! If only he could grab one of them and thoroughly search him... Even better than a guard would be that elf, the beaked bastard... He was, likely, one of the bosses, so of limitless sentience...

He wistfully looked around and started walking around among the converging walls. Alone! It wasn't even two days, and Richard was already in a better place, while Abby was who knew where... Remembering them, he felt his tortured soul and bitter confusion. He imagined meeting fellow sentient beings differently, especially ones who looked so much like humans.

The xenological scenarios of first contact, taught to him during his period of education, helped little; possibly because they were based on the hypotheses of science fiction writers rather than precise facts.

Litvin was not a big fan of this sort of literature; he was a lot more into to memoirs, biographies, and historical works, meaningful descriptions of real lives and events. As for scenarios, they boiled down to three main options: a contact with entirely alien beings like squids or ants, understanding whom would be difficult or impossible; contacts with friendly or hostile humanoids. The Bino Faata seemed to fit the last option the best, but Litvin was afraid to make a mistake. He couldn't get rid of the vague feeling that the aliens' appearance could be false, designed to deceive; he pondered the many peoples and tribes of Earth, physiologically the same, but remarkably varied in psychological makeup, culture, customs, and worldview. The lives of the Romans had been devoted to duty, the Greeks had fought for freedom, while the languages of the Egyptians in the ages of the pyramids had not even had that word; it had been normal for the Mayans and the Aztecs to perform human sacrifices, while the people of the Solomon Islands had practiced cannibalism; polygamy had flourished in Asian countries, while Europeans had considered it debauchery; the Japanese had been vegetarians, while the Germans had liked bloody ground meat, the Buddhists had believed in karma and the endless cycle of rebirth, while the Christians had believed in immaculate conception. Besides that, always and everywhere there had been a range of sexuality, wide enough to include same-sex love, a strange attraction to animals, and other habits, some pretty exotic. Without a doubt, humans were not unified in terms of their psyche, and judging their actions outside the context of these ethical norms, acceptable in this or that society, was pointless.

And the Bino Faata were not human, and whatever was going on in their heads and souls was a closely-guarded secret... Pacing the chamber, Litvin tried to get to it, look at the events differently, find some kind of explanation for them. Maybe the destruction of the _Lark_ had been an accident; the aliens, not knowing how human weapons worked, simply deflected an attack with their force shield. But, on the other hand, they were not expressing any remorse about the deaths of a hundred and thirty people; either the aliens were unfamiliar with this feeling, or death was a commonplace occurrence for them. They had, however, cured Litvin, which meant that they needed him for something...

What had happened to Corcoran also allowed for a series of conflicting interpretations. Naturally, experimenting on a living human was a cruel, inhumane thing, but what was its purpose? The experiment, mentioned by the computer, could have meant anything, from vivisection and psychic surgery to a harmless medical exam. Harmless from the viewpoint of the Faata, but lethal to terrestrial organisms... Maybe they'd also been fooled by the similarity? But it was difficult to believe that such highly-developed beings were capable of displaying such carelessness, or rather disastrous foolishness! After all, humans could have gotten aboard with terrestrial microorganics, and the aliens' own microorganisms could present a deadly threat to humans. First and foremost, this had to do with food and drink, but Litvin did not feel any ailments; the drink sated thirst, the food satiated. So, this problem had been resolved. Maybe the Bino Faata had discovered that it didn't exist at all? Or had given him some shots?

He remembered a book by Ivan Yefremov he'd read when he was little, about the bright world of the Great Ring, and smiled bitterly. It was looking like the brotherhood of civilizations in the spirit of _The Andromeda Nebula_ was not likely. You'd grabbed us with a gravity noose, and we hit you in the face with swarms... An unpleasant prospect! Moreover, a disappointing one!

In a bout of sudden fury, Litvin punched a fist into the soft wall.

McNeil! Where were you, McNeil? What had they done to you?

He ate; this time is was something light, sweet, looking like a green foam. He didn't have to chew it, it melted on his tongue and slipped into his throat on its own. Done with the meal, Litvin, lacking any other entertainment, decided to sleep, but then he had visitors.

An entire delegation! Two muscular guards, followed by an old man with drooping lips and a wrinkly face in a halo of greenish locks, a short frail-looking man with a bald scalp, and a woman more beautiful than he had ever met: a small bright mouth, silver eyes with shadows of blue pupils, a delicate nose, a dark mane of hair and the figure of a dancer. Litvin stared at her in amazement; for some reason, he'd assumed that the aliens had no women. These three were wearing shiny skintight clothes and once again reminded Litvin of elves: one old, one young, and a beautiful fairy with them.

They passed through the membrane, the elves sat down on the floor, while the guards froze nearby. All their faces seemed unmoving, inhumanly calm: no fluttering of eyelids or lips, no hint of a smile. A small crystal ball glimmered on the young man's bald scalp, attached at the temple; an identical decoration was concealed in the female's hair.

The young man touched a hand to his chest.

"Yegg, t'ho, of limit'd sentience, ass'stant of Iveh." His hand pointed at the old man in a respectful gesture, then he touched the female's arm. "Yo, also ass'stant, also of limit'd sentience."

His voice was quiet, throaty, but very dissimilar from the sharp croaking of the computer. He replaced some sounds with glottal stops, as if he was in a hurry to finish speaking, but in everything else he spoke without an accent.

Litvin barely took his eyes away from the woman and looked at the old man. _He's in charge,_ he thought. _An important man from the command staff with a pair of assistants. So what do they want?_

"Paul," he said, "my name is Paul. As the senior officer of the spaceship _Lark_, I represent Earth. Who is Iveh?"

"F'lly sentient," he heard in response. And, after a beat, as if the one called Yegg was looking for the right word, "Your term would be 'intermediary'."

"And what does that mean?"

Yegg started to think again, but then the female's high voice sounded.

"Politician. Messenger. One who speak with Bino Tegari from Bino Faata."

She spoke cleanly, not haltingly. The small crystal sphere glimmered in her hair, occasionally flaring and dropping iridescent sparks. The sphere on Yegg's temple looked different, glowing dimly like the weak bulb of a flashlight.

_So, a politician,_ Litvin thought. _The old fart is a diplomat with two young interpreters... They wish to enter negotiations? Or lean something?_

Like the majority of the population of Earth, he distrusted politicians and decided to be careful. He stared at the beautiful Yo and grunted.

"You've learned our language well."

"To a extent," Yegg replied. "We already receive s'gnals from your planet and suppl'ment our vocabulary. It has th'sands of concepts."

"And you keep it all in your heads?"

"Not all. This h'lp us," Yegg touched the small ball. "Kaff. Key. Interface th't make connection between me and Yo with a r'membering device."

"With a computer?" Litvin threw his eyes up to the ceiling dome.

"You would calls it thus. For us it's a pr'mpter. Gives necessary terms." Yegg lingered for a second and asked, "Do you und'rstand me well?"

"I hear familiar words, but do I understand you?" Litvin shrugged. "Not so much. I don't understand why you killed Richard. I don't understand what you did with McNeil. I don't understand what you want from me."

"Rich'ard, Mc'Neil," Yegg repeated. "The ones who be with you? These their n'mes?" Not waiting for an answer, he spat out several words. They were abrupt, sharp, reminiscent of the computer's metallic voice, and Litvin realized that he was hearing the Bino Faata language.

The old man answered. Rrr-drr-tratata... The human throat was incapable of reproducing these sounds, they were coming out with the speed of a machinegun burst.

"Intermediary said, it is clear that you ask questions. He said that no question th't remain without answer. But need to obs'rve... how is it?.. yes, r'ciprocity. M'ybe equivalence or equil'brium. Correct term, yes? Intermediary offered to c'operate. We catch transmissions Earth, analyze, abs'rb concept called deal. Intermediary Iveh say, deal is when useful to you and useful to us. You ask question, we ask question. You say answer, we say answer. Yes?"

A whole speech, even though the old man had seemingly uttered a single short phrase. Was the interpreter adding something from himself?.. Possibly, but now was not the time to think about this, as there were more important problems. For example, if the aliens are in the area of reliable radio reception and had, more or less, figured out English, why did they need Lieutenant Commander Paul Litvin? Earth was broadcasting (hell, it was screaming, yelling!) in the low-frequency range; thousands of TV and radio stations, like thousands of open mouths, spewing out reviews and news, plays and films, commercials and stock market reports, music, videos, educational and entertainment programs. To suit every taste: if you want, study Sumerian history, if you want, enjoy the landscapes of New Guinea, if you want, watch people, bees, or alligators copulate. This stream provided very detailed information about Earth, its languages and customs of the peoples, about technology and geography, politics, social structure and everything else. Besides that, there was also the Ultranet, and if one connected to its network through satellites, then there wouldn't be any secrets left. Compared to this torrent of information, the secrets known by Litvin weren't even worth mentioning.

Litvin chuckled, glanced at the guards near the membrane and said, "A deal requires mutual trust. You have destroyed our ship, killed Richard, took McNeil, put me in a cell... What kind of trust can there be?"

Yegg translated, firing out a series of clicking and growling sounds. The old man answered and, getting up without any visible effort, headed for the exit. The guards followed. An appropriate moment, Litvin decided; he didn't have any doubt that he could deal with both interpreters. His muscles tensed involuntarily, but, catching the female's eye, he tried to relax. The beautiful Yo was watching him, at least he thought she was; he couldn't tell with certainty, as he could barely catch the movement of the pupils in those silver eyes.

"Intermediary Iveh said, tr'st light up road to understanding. He will return when we establish tr'st."

The kaff sphere on the woman's temple blinked, and Litvin heard her high clear voice.

"We stay... will stay. There is not understood by you. We will explain."

"Go ahead," Litvin said. "But can I believe the explanations of those of limited sentience?" They did not seem to understand, so he added. "For want of the best, we'll get what's left. Explain. Start with the destruction of my ship. I'm listening."

"You attack, we defend," Yegg said. "How to defend is d'cided by one who is at the obs'rvation sphere. He is the Pillar of Order, first in the Sheaf. He d'cided to remove from existencce. No more attack. This... how you call?.. precedent."

"Not precedent, lesson," the woman suggested.

"So, a lesson," Litvin spoke slowly, feeling a passionate desire to snap both of their necks. Then again, he was used to dealing with his fury; the excessively angry and reckless weren't in favor with the marines, knowing that they didn't live long. "Fine, I'll accept that: you attack, we defend, and the Pillar of Order decided to teach us a lesson. Was Richard also a lesson?"

Yegg and Yo simultaneously raised their hands in front of their chest and smoothly spread them out. A negative gesture? Apparently, as Yegg said, "No. That be different s'tuation, more complicated. S'ch as when—"

"If it's more complicated, then let her explain," Litvin nodded at the woman. "Yo has mastered the language better."

Yegg slowly closed his eyes, and the sphere on his temple dimmed. What did that mean, and did it mean anything at all? The faces of the man and woman were dispassionate, and he could not read any traces of emotions on them. _So alike us and yet so alien,_ he thought. Maybe they really were of limited sentience? No smile, no grimace of displeasure or surprise, nothing at all... But, judging by their conversation, both were entirely sane.

"Intermediary Iveh wanted... wanted to make contact." Yo touched her thin fingers to her forehead and stretched the hand out to Litvin. "Communication without words... like... no term..."

Shuddering, Litvin recalled the first Bino Faata he saw and the strange sensation in his skull. Not pain, not pressure, but something else: sounds, hum, flashing pictures.

"Mental communication?" he asked. "Telepathic?"

"We retrieved these concepts from your transmissions, but they are not defined clearly. Different meaning is placed in them." The sphere in the woman's hair suddenly sparked, scattering colored flashes. "Let us call it mental... I was suggested that the term is acceptable. The Bino Faata developed such method of communication after the Second Eclipse. You are very similar to us, and Yata and Iveh decided that it was worth trying..." Yo touched her temple again. "But they could not make contact, not with you, not with the one you call Richard. There are differences in the brain structure, and they attempted to figure them out. Layered reading of the brain cell signals... very complicated examination, dangerous... damaged the respiratory center."

"I heard that already," Litvin said, gritting his teeth. "What happened to McNeil?"

"To your ksa? She was too excited. She was placed in t'hami. You can look."

Yo didn't move, but the ceiling dome and the back wall vanished. Instead, there was a view of an extensive chamber with clusters of pipes or hoses that seemed to stretch from all directions; in this web, equidistant from one another, lay naked human bodies, perhaps a thousand, or ten thousand, or even a million. This storage space looked endless; rows of bodies went far and to the sides, went up, like in some monstrous warehouse where people were being kept in reserve or, possibly, kept as spare skin and organs for those who really lived. The image came closer, enlarged, and Litvin saw that they were women. A great number of women, sleeping or in a trance, all of them with nearly-identical faces: frozen, widely-spaced eyes with blue whites, small puffy mouths, slightly pointy chins. Yo had the same racial signs, but had a larger harmony of traits and an exotic beauty, at least in Litvin's opinion.

McNeil lay or hung in zero-G in one of the rows. Her skin was just as white, breasts just as small as those of her neighbors, but her red locks burned a bright spot in a row of dark-haired heads. It seemed as if she was sleeping with open eyes, staring somewhere into empty space.

"Asleep?" Litvin asked.

"This is t'hami," Yo explained, and the image under on the dome disappeared. "In the condition that you call sleep, vital processes are slowed down. A little. Here, they are slowed down more; there is almost no need for air or nutrients. But the hormonal processes continue with regular speed. This is the ksa t'hami."

"Ksa are women? Like you?"

For the first time he noticed her face twitch. But her voice remained calm.

"Not like me. I am incapable of producing offspring."

Litvin glanced at Yegg; he sat motionless, with lowered eyelids, as if he was meditating, not seeing and not hearing anything. Like a robot that had been turned off, he thought. He moved closer to Yo, took her thin frail hand, put her hand near his lips.

"But you are still a woman, right? Your face and body is like that of our women, and you smell just as sweetly... Why can you not have children?"

"I am not meant for that."

She did not pull her hand away, maybe she did not understand why Litvin was pressing it to his cheek. Her skin was soft to the touch, like a young woman's, her fingernails were oval and pink, the touch of her fingers was pleasant.

"Not meant for that, huh?!" Litvin repeated. "I don't understand something, dear fairy. Do you reproduce by cell division or cloning? Or have you mastered assembly line production?"

He released the woman's hand. Her face froze again.

"I cannot discuss this question. Speak with the Intermediary."

"Why?"

"A race's method of reproduction is a key detail of its survival."

Litvin nodded. This truth had been given to him at the Baikonur School, using the very same words. Sighing, he said, "Can I examine the ship?"

The kaff on Yegg's bald scalp flared up, and the interpreter awoke. His eyes opened; he sat for a moment, stretching out his neck, as if listening to some telepathic themes floating in the air, then said, "Yata p'rmits. Yata thinks, useful demonstration for B'no T'gari."

"Yata? Who is this Yata?"

"Pillar of Order. One who is at the obs'rvation sphere. One who saw you first."

_The beaked bastard,_ Litvin remembered and rose.

The ship was enormous. Not even the biggest orbital stations revolving around Earth could compete with it, not even the gigantic Centaur complex, the orbital shipyard for building cruisers and ore carriers flying to the Asteroid Belt.

The ship appeared to be a cylinder six kilometers in length and three in diameter; its center was pierced by a shaft with the hyperlight converter. For in-system flights and maneuvering, there were gravity drives, located outside the hull on two toroidal belts. Litvin was not told how all this machinery worked, and it was unlikely he would understand these explanations anyway; for him, an engine was a fusion reactor with raging plasma in magnetic rings. However, looking at the holographic plan of the ship and listening to Yegg's commentary, he understood that it had no ramjet drive, no nozzles, no streams of hot gases, no magnetic bottles or diaphragms. Everything was both simpler and more complicated: a huge pipe, in which something was created that warped the universe: not on the global scale, but in that tiny part of it that lay between the start and finish points.

The converter was, of course, the most mysterious device, but there were plenty of other puzzles. There were, obviously, some things that were understandable, more likely, inevitable for creatures with two arms and two legs: wells of weightlessness between decks, wide, kilometer-long hallways, equivalents to elevators and airlocks, compartments of unusual form but a clear purpose, such as laboratories, recyclers, eating areas, empty or full holds, lattice constructions with air coming out of them. Even a person born on another planet had to eat, breathe, relieve waste, as well as work and move, either by walking or, considering the size of the ship, using lifts and transport pods. But that was not the limit of human needs, at least those familiar to Litvin. A human needed solitude, which meant a home where he could rest and sleep, but community was also a necessity. Interactions with other people, personal items, objects for decorating one's home, methods and means of entertainment; all that was as much an integral part of any human ship as the fusion reactor or the life support system.

But they did not recognize such excesses here. Endless shafts and hallways stretched into the distance, up, and down; lights spun around behind transparent walls in deserted hallways; occasionally, a section would appear with a human-like figure, which seemed to be lost among cables, tubes and films and, apparently, connected to some devices, perhaps even a part of them. Besides Yegg and Yo, Litvin was escorted by a guard in bracelets, but he did not see any public gatherings, not even a pair of aliens. He also did not see any dwellings, cabins or quarters, wardrooms, promenade decks, greenhouses. He saw a hall with the low, already familiar, tables, their version of food dispensers, but it was completely empty. The hall, like the other compartments, was enormous; they could probably put all the beauties sleeping in t'hami here.

Litvin stopped, examined it, and raised his eyebrows. A floor with a soft gray cover, many tables, and nothing similar to decorations: no statues, no paintings, no flowers in vases, and no vases; everything was monotonous, functional, and repetitive like a crystal cell... Then again, the hall could have been a backup site, awaiting its sleeping crew, the part that did not currently require any food or drink. It was possible there were other hallways, halls, and sections that were livelier, hidden in the depths of the ship. After all, the ship was not flat but a spatial structure with hundreds of decks and tiers, whose area was no smaller than a terrestrial metropolis. About five thousand square kilometers, Litvin estimated, feeling a little dizzy.

He looked back at his companions. The beautiful Yo, who was providing the explanations, was closer to him, almost touching, and he could feel her scent, the strong spicy aroma of a female body. The guard and Yegg stood farther away; the broad-faced guard towered over the frail-looking interpreter. His cuirass and bracelets gleamed dully, but no weapons in his hands or on his belt were present. _That's one big moose,_ Litvin thought, trying to figure out where to strike when the opportunity presented itself. The ganglia in the neck and the back of the head? Or should he pinch the carotid arteries? He wasn't sure about the ganglia, as they could be located in completely different places than in humans, but the arteries supplying the brain with blood could not be anywhere else. They were in the neck, on both sides under the jaw, like in a normal person. He had a bull's neck, though, one could bend a crowbar on it...

_If I get a chance, I'll test it,_ Litvin decided. _Yo's hand is so wonderful, but how will this troll feel to the touch?_ The guard had about twenty kilograms on Litvin, but in a fight, weight and muscles did not hold primary importance. The main part was the fighter's training, and Litvin had no doubt that his own instructors had done an excellent job.

He stretched out a hand, knocked on the transparent membrane and asked, "Empty! Where are the people, my fairy?"

"The t'ho are resting. The Faata are in communication with the Ship. They should not be disturbed."

"The Faata?"

"Fully sentient. Like Iveh."

"I don't want to disturb them, but I wouldn't mind taking a look. Is that possible?"

Not replying, Yo quickly moved ahead. Hurrying up after her, Litvin was counting his steps: every two hundred paces the hallway was partitioned by a transparent membrane. Only weak light glare allowed him to see them; all four of them passed the barrier like it was thin air. To the right an endless hall with tables stretched out; to the left and below he saw the outlines of some complex mechanisms showing through the walls. Curious machines, but he could not get a good look at the details, as they were at the bottom of a deep hold well, about a hundred meters below. Litvin thought that they reminded him of enormous coiled snakes with shiny scales and spikes stretched out over their spines.

They passed the refectory, and an alcove with a dark ceiling dome opened up in the wall after it.

"Here," Yo said. "We can see here."

Litvin threw his head back. The ceiling dome looked identical to the one in his chamber, black and bottomless, like the abyss between galactic arms. A computer terminal, he thought. Probably one of many thousands of them, scattered throughout the hallways, halls, and transportation lines. A local station? Or was the entirety of the ship under control?

The kaff sphere in Yo's hair was suddenly illuminated, the wall and the ceiling dissolved. Now there was an egg-shaped oval hall: continuous curved surfaces glowing with a milky white light. At the very center hovered a strange construct seemingly made up of multiple green icicles; this assembly was rhythmically contracting and expanding, like a living being slowly breathing. Five or six dark outgrowths were visible on it, and Litvin did not immediately realize that they were the heads of people submerged into the icy mass. One of them was familiar: the wrinkly face with drooping lips and dull hair belonged to Iveh. The others looked younger but not by much; all had vertical wrinkles over the bridge of the nose and mouths reminiscent of beaks. _The council of elders?_ he thought. _But why did they put themselves on ice?_

"Intermediaries," Yegg uttered behind him. "Iveh and... how to s'y?.. his team, his group. Is that c'rrect?"

"Correct," Litvin confirmed. "What is that thing that they're submerged into? What are they doing there?"

"Device for mental communication," Yo answered this time. "You do not have a term... Not exactly a device, but something uniting minds when solving a complex task. They are attempting to analyze the data coming from your world. They are very, very experienced... Understanding the social structure and psychology of personality (is that what you call it?) is all that is necessary for a successful contact. Understand, create models, predict reactions..."

Litvin chuckled, "And have they gotten far?"

"There is no clear understanding yet. Look at what they see."

A new image appeared above the hallway with the green construct. A huge crowd of people in burnouses and dzhubbas was raging under the wall of a mosque; fists raised high, mouths opened in a shout, barrels of assault rifles, green flags, banners with writing in Arabic and English... Borneo? The Assassins? No, more likely Baghdad or Kabul, Litvin decided. The Assassins did not throw these sort of gatherings and didn't saber-rattle. The first commandment of the Biran: if you raise your gun, then you must shoot an infidel...

The picture changed. Now it was, obviously, a clip from a historical film: the shining sun, the blue sea, and two sailing ships: a large Spanish galleon and a frigate with a black pirate flag on the mast. Fire flashed, clouds of gray smoke swelled up, pieces of yards and boards sprayed, fire began to dance, consuming a bulwark. The Spaniards in shining cuirasses raised their muskets, fired a volley, but it was too late, the ships came together. Ropes and hooks flew up, a horde of half-naked savage corsairs flowed onto the deck, waving cutlasses and axes. A mast fell, crushing a dozen musketeers, a severed arm still clutching a blade flashed past... Then, without any transition, a hovercraft appeared, snow-white and enormous, like a floating palace, with "Transatlantic Ferry _Venice_" written on the side. A stratosphere liner rushed past: the view from the top, a cabin full of passengers, pretty flight attendants and close-up shots of drinks, oysters, and caviar; obviously, a commercial.

_Wow!_ Litvin thought. _It looks like they can't distinguish between fiction and reality! A pirate frigate and a modern ship... Yeah, they don't really go together if you don't know what's going on!_

A new picture was unfolding in front of him: a restaurant or a bar, tables with lots of people, drinking, chewing, waving their hands excitedly, bright lights on the ceiling, a long stage, and a blonde young woman on it. She was dancing and slowly stripping with an enchanting smile: the blouse and skirt came off; smooth rotation of her butt, a turn, then another, the bra fell down, her fingers on the hardened nipples, then slipping lower, to her stockings and panties, but stopped: it was not the time yet. The girl descended to the hall, danced between the tables, the men stretched out to her, putting bills under her garter. The quality of the image was not the best; likely a live feed from whatever bar was popular. They were giving eulars, and the men looked reckless, so the blonde was not dancing in Moscow. Probably somewhere in Europe or the States...

"Explain," Yo's silver eyes stared at Litvin. "Is that a medical experiment? Or biological? But why so many..." the prompter sphere blinked. "Many doctors, medics? They are examining this woman and consuming food... Why? Is that your custom?"

"Medicine has nothing to do with it, but biology... biology is, perhaps, involved, only below the belt," said Litvin. "It's a strip show." Pausing to think, he added vindictively, "No other term available!"

"An incomprehensible term can be d'scribed using oth'r, understandable terms," Yegg intervened.

"Okay, I'll try. These bodily movements and the sight of the nude female body is pleasing to men." Litvin pointed at the blonde, who was still squirming between the tables. "In some ways, it's an art. Men are very excited by it."

"Art," Yo repeated, and the kaff in her hair began to blink. It blinked without pause for a whole minute; it seemed that she could not understand the computer's explanations about art. "You said that the female's nudity excites men... In what way? Is that a psychological or a physiological reaction?"

"Both. Hormonal balance shifts, blood pressure and heartbeat rhythm rise, muscles tense... and, well, something else tenses too. It's an ancient sexual mechanism."

"Related to reproduction?"

"Not necessarily."

Yo looked thoughtful. A human's face in these moments changed: the face wrinkled, the eyebrows rose, the lips hardened, the folds near the mouth grew deeper. Involuntary movement of facial muscles reflecting the flow of thoughts... But nothing of the sort was happening to the Bino Faata female, only her silver eyes froze and her eyelids momentarily covered them.

Then she shared the fruits of her reflections with Litvin.

"If I was naked, would that excite you?"

"And how!" Litvin admitted. "You look much more pleasing that that blonde girl. I'm not even talking about the scent..."

"The scent, yes..." Yo's eyes squinted slightly. "The scent means that I am close to my tuahha period. Seven or eight more cycles, and then I will forget myself in t'hami, and you will get a new interpreter."

"Int'rpreters," Yegg clarified. "We, Yo and I, are of the same generation, so t'ahha come to us at the same time."

"Does this mean you require sleep? Regular sleep?"

Yo spread her hands in a by now familiar gesture.

"No. Only in normalization of hormonal processes and relieving the tension at certain times. Usually, this takes five to eight cycles." She lowered her gaze and continued. "It is not considered appropriate to ask, but, perhaps, you will say... When is your tuahha?"

_I think we're at a dead end,_ Litvin thought, aloud he said, "I've been fine without it so far. We have many ways of relieving stress. You're probably seen them, if you're intercepting transmissions from Earth." He pointed at the silent guard. "What about him? Does he get tuahha as well?"

"It happens to everyone," Yo said sharply. "Do you want to see anything else?"

"Of course. The halls for t'hami. Especially the one where you put the human female. I need to make sure that she's fine."

"It is f'r," Yegg intervened. "We need to ride."

"Then let's ride!"

The blonde stripper and the packed restaurant disappeared. A membrane gleamed in the wall, and, looking through the transparent curtain, Litvin saw outlines of a pod, a soft gray floor, and complex patterns of multicolored lines that seemed to glow in midair. The diagram of shipboard transportation! He should figure it out... And then find out how to call a transport... Maybe using one of these spheres? A kaff?

"Here."

Yo headed for the membrane, followed by the guard. The skin on his hairless scalp glittered, armor covered his body from the neck to mid-thigh. This shell looked different from the marines' combat suits: it clung to the torso and the buttocks like a glove, and the powerful muscles visibly rolled and tensed under it.

An appropriate moment, Litvin thought. He shouldn't, of course, deal a mortal blow, but he could gauge the target. As if by accident...

Pretending to trip, he hit the guard between the shoulder blades with his own shoulder. He felt like he'd just run into a mountain.


	8. Chapter 7

_This is a fan translation of _Invasion_ (Вторжение) by Mikhail Akhmanov, currently only available in Russian and, because of the author's passing in 2019, unlikely to ever be published in English. This is the first book in a six-book series called _Arrivals from the Dark_ (Пришедшие из мрака), which also has a six-book spin-off series called _Trevelyan's Mission_ (Миссия Тревельяна)._

_I claim no rights to the contents herein._

* * *

**Chapter 7**

Earth, New York City, Moscow, and Brussels

When the UN Security Council had finished addressing the fourth and final for that day issue (regarding yet another Palestinian crisis), Umkhonto Tlume, the representative of the Free Zulu Territory [African nation founded in 2043 as a result of the territorial disengagement between the black and white population of South Africa. Recognized by the United Nations.], stood up. The FZT was not a permanent member of the Security Council, but the great powers believed that the little nations of the world need to be engaged into the work of the commissions and committees of the UN; of course, only on a temporary basis and with the right of an advisory vote. This looked democratic and gave the junior partners useful illusions; for example, that their opinion played a role in world politics and that their presidents, dictators, and kings could operate on equal terms with the VIPs from the States and Europe. The temporary representatives were given the title of advisor; usually, they were co-opted for six to eight months, selecting people not prone to scandals and who knew English well. Out of all such individuals, Umkhonto Tlume was the quietest and least scandalous; in his seven weeks on the Council he had not uttered a single word, despite being fluent in English. However, it seemed that today, he was planning on giving an entire speech.

It started with a question, "Are you aware, gentlemen, about the hypothesis proposed by the astronomer Liu of the Kepler Observatory?"

The gentlemen reacted differently. The American irritably grunted and pursed his lips, the Frenchman and the German yawned, the British representative Lord Michael Manson, a man with manners, set his pocketpute to record and closed his eyes, while the Japanese Tatsumi poured mineral water into his glass. Perhaps the only one whose ears pricked up was the EAU representative Boris Gorchakov. His reaction was purely instinctive: at a Chinese name and any mentions of China, which bordered Russia and its Asian satellites for eight thousand kilometers. A fifth of the equator, after all! And a billion and a half of hard-working but hungry citizens, looking predatorily at Mongolia, Siberia, and Kazakhstan.

So, Gorchakov wiped his glasses and said, "What hypothesis, advisor? You're saying, the astronomer Liu... Is it somehow connected to space technology?"

"More like space security," Umkhonto Tlume declared. He had white teeth, smooth black skin, imposing height, and excellent Oxford pronunciation. "The materials of Dr. Liu Chang's observations were published in the weekly periodical _CosmoSpiegel_, and then, following the USF press conference the day before yesterday were reprinted by the _People's Daily_, the _Nuevo Sicilia_, the _Tetris Plus_, and several other publications.

"Yellow press," the USC representative Jarvis muttered. "Especially this _People's Daily_... As yellow as you can get!"

"And what will you say about the _New York Herald_, the _London Express_, and the _Moscow Fires_?" Tlume asked. "As well as TV networks like the JBC, Inter-Inform, and Channel One Russia?"

Sir Michael opened his eyes and nodded his head full of noble gray hair.

"Yes, I remember now... The _Herald_ and the _London Express_... There was something there about a scandal caused by a journalist from the _Spiegel_... His name was Gunther Voss, correct?"

"You are absolutely correct. He was the first to announce Liu's hypothesis."

Gorchakov did not watch TV and did not read newspapers, except for the _Russian Government Bulletin_, but he had two dozen assistants who extracted news worthy of his attention from the media. He trusted them completely. So, if his morning overview hadn't had a word about the Chinese astronomer Liu, then all his hypotheses were either frank delirium or an attempt at self-promotion. Calming down, Gorchakov took off his glasses, wiped them, and put them back on his nose. He was a little nearsighted, a flaw that could have been eliminated at any decent hospital in two hours, but he was not in a hurry to lose either his nearsightedness or his glasses. The glasses underscored his status and gave him a diplomatic chic; besides, they were full of clever technology that had nothing to do with sight!

"I seem to remember something," Montserrat, the French representative, spoke suddenly. "I, dear colleagues, am a fan of Patrick McCaffrey of JBC, and the day before yesterday... no, yesterday, listened to another overview, and these names came up. They definitely came up! Voss and Liu! I believe, they claim that aliens have invaded the Solar System? Somewhere near Jupiter? I decided it was a joke. McCaffrey is Irish, and they, you know, have a strange sense of humor. They–"

"It is not a joke, Monsieur Montserrat," Tlume interrupted the Frenchman. "It is so much not a joke that I advise you to immediately inform the USF headquarters. Even better, contact them and ask what the admirals think about all this. The USF are called upon to defend civilization from spaceborne dangers and, of course, foresee any such dangers and threats. It would be strange if the organ of the UN, which this meeting is, anticipated such tasks of the Space Forces as long-range reconnaissance in space, analysis of all suspicious artifacts, and the timely notification of the Security Council and, though it, the governments of the great nations. Doubly strange," Tlume raised his voice here, "is that we find out about the threat not from the Space Forces but from a number of publications and TV channels. You will agree that we cannot consider such a situation to be normal. They say that the USF bases on Luna and Mars are very comfortable. Cafes, saloons, greenhouses, pools, excellent hospitals... Are our admirals unwilling to leave their cozy offices? And, as the Russians say," a nod at Gorchakov, "are they busy catching flies up there?"

Jarvis chuckled.

"Are you being serious, Advisor? I don't mean the part about the admirals sitting in their offices or, maybe, in a bar with girls, I mean the essence of the problem. You believe that there are grounds for concern? That we," he made a sweeping gesture, "have indeed been invaded by aliens?"

Smiles appeared on the faces of the Security Council members. After a tiring session, they were willing to have some fun, and the suggested topic promised a few entertaining minutes. Montserrat began to whisper with the German representative Pfeifer, Tatsumi got more comfortable in his chair and took a sip from his glass, while Gorchakov adjusted his glasses, so that the tiny camera built into the bridge was aimed straight at Umkhonto Tlume. The Zulu's face was inscrutable, only his dark cheeks went slightly gray.

"Hmm..." Sir Michael said, and silence rose over the table. Lord Manson was respected, not only because of Great Britain's modest contribution to Earth's safety, but also because of the sophistication of his mind and the ancestry of his family. His ancestor Olivier de Mance had been a captain in William the Conqueror's army and received the title of baron in the age when Earth was still standing on the backs of three whales.

"World War II gave an enormous boost to military development," Sir Michael mused. "You all, of course, recall: the atomic bomb, then the hydrogen bomb, ballistic missiles, flights to near-Earth space, HAARP, and, finally, military orbital platforms. All this, in one way or another, is related to the atmosphere and space, and the effects from launches or explosions have been, occasionally, detected thousands of miles from the launch site. People saw glowing disks and spheres, debris from launch vehicles, plumes of hot gases, and sometimes found whatever fell down to Earth: fragments of devices created using secret technology. This created a kind of hysteria that lasted for about eighty years. Some claimed that they were seeing alien ships, others declared that they'd come into contact with aliens and even been subjected to biological experiments..." Lord Manson threw his silver-haired head back. "Well, there have always been plenty of lunatics on Earth. Are these Liu and Voss among them?"

Tlume shrugged.

"I remember this story, sir. I will tell you more; I know that the hysteria you mentioned was very cleverly used as one of the reasons for the creation of the USF. But in our time, insinuations like that are impossible, as we control the Solar System up to the Asteroid Belt."

"Are you saying that past mistakes will not be repeated?" Montserrat asked. "I believe that this is rubbish! Man is stubborn and foolish, and there is no misconception that will not reappear ten times from ancient times to modern day."

"I agree," Tatsumi declared. "Especially since we can discern obvious goals here: self-promotion, increase in circulation, and revenue from TV and Ultranet sites."

"Any old idea can be pulled out into the light of day, given a facelift, and sold for profit," Pfeifer added. "Just take the Church of the Cosmic Satanists, the Neoluddites, the New Greens, and the apologists of Great Albania. And these... what do you call them..."

"Ufologists," suggested Sir Michael.

"Yes, ufologists... Why could they not be reborn?"

Jarvis snickered.

"Given the right conditions, even Prohibition could be revived. That would be something! Much bigger than aliens!"

Gorchakov said nothing, only staring at Umkhonto Tlume in surprise. The Zulu's face had gone even grayer, his shoulders had slumped, the skin had lost elasticity and sagged slightly, his dark eyes looked dull and sad. _Is he worried?.._ Gorchakov thought. _Obviously, he took the reporter and the dubious astronomer's ravings to heart. An unforgivable sin for a diplomat!_

"I see," Tlume said, straightening up, "that we have problems with the perception of reality. Well then... You have listened to me, I have listened to you, and am not offended by distrust. Such, unfortunately, is the nature of man. But you should still think, is it not worth contacting the USF headquarters? Such a minuscule effort! You can disbelieve me, you can consider Liu Chang's data faulty, you can suspect that Voss is a swindler... But there remains an indisputable argument..." after a precisely-calculated pause, Tlume exhaled, "What if?"

He was right about that, Gorchakov decided. What if? There was always a chance.

That very night he was contacted by Asadin, an influential person from the President's inner circle. The position he occupied was unknown to Gorchakov; it was not impossible that he did not hold any briefcase in his hands and was not burdened by official posts. There were rumors that he supervised the EAU secret service and was also involved with the President's re-election staff. Besides that, he had probably gone to college or the political faculty of the Moscow State University with the President and was, as claimed by the media, related to him. Well, maybe not to the President himself but to the First Lady, but either way, a special confidant.

Rumors, gossip, talk... But Gorchakov knew one thing with complete certainty: from Asadin's lips came the President's words.

It was 1 PM in New York, 9 AM in Moscow, and above the Atlantic, in the area where the orbital relay satellite was located, darkness and night also reigned. They communicated by voice, no video, as the code with a multilayered defense and the cryptographic device did not allow for the transmission of images. It was better this way; he could smoke, drink coffee, or yawn without having to keep up his diplomatic facade.

"The President has studied the recording of the latest session that you sent," Asadin spoke. "Something has aroused his interest."

Gorchakov reached for a cigarette, let out a stream of smoke into the ceiling, then sipped his coffee.

"Do you require additional information?"

"No, I don't think so. We need to support Advisor Tlume's proposal. Actively. So that it would be clear to everyone that the initiative comes from the President of the EAU."

"Are we orienting to Southern Africa? Why is that?" Gorchakov asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise. He'd expected to discuss the Palestinian crisis, with the goal of obtaining the mandate to expand the Russian base in Syria. The interest in Tlume's ravings, in his opinion, could only mean one thing: cozying up to Zulu with unclear political goals.

He heard Asadin's dry laughter.

"No, Boris Sergeyevich. We don't need the Turkish coast, or the Zulu Territory... We just think that Tlume is correct: what if? We are currently analyzing the information that has come from the media. They mention a report from John Bradford, the head of the Kepler Observatory. These materials have probably already been passed on to the Space Forces headquarters, and Timokhin had a chance to familiarize himself with them."

"I will contact him. Immediately!"

"Contact him, but not about the report. Regardless of its contents, we would like for the Third Fleet to shift a large force into the area of space where the hypothetical arrival could be located. Specifically the Third Fleet, do you understand? Say, four heavy cruisers: the _Pamir_, the _Sakhalin_, the _Taiga_, and the _Barracuda_. They are mostly crewed by Russian personnel, correct?"

"Yes," Gorchakov confirmed, "yes. However..."

He pondered, anticipating some sort of intrigue. Gorchakov did not like intrigues and "under the carpet" fuss, although, being a sober-minded politician, recognized the inevitability of both. It was not uncommon for their partners in the USF to attempt to use them to resolve internal problems, support dropping ratings, or as a cudgel that could be used to threaten the opposition. The formation of the United Space Forces had pursued various goals: two obvious ones and a third that had never been officially stated but was understood by all. First of all, it had solidified the alliance between Europe, the Russian Eurasia, and North America, and the common development of military technology had promised fantastic prospects, which ended up being justified within the last several decades. The fusion drive, superstrong materials, and super-reliable electronics allowed for the creation of ships operating within the limits of the Solar System, partial colonization of Mars, and the mining of the treasures of the Asteroid Belt. That was the first goal, and the second one, which had been promoted even more, was related to cosmic safety, the protection of Earth from comets, meteorites, and solar flares.

As for the third goal, it had constituted of the global domination of Earth. Orbital military platforms and Lunar bases did not work for that, being perfect targets for missiles from China, Korea, Pakistan, and other unreliable planetary neighbors. Strictly speaking, the Heavenly Kingdom alone could have put up dozens of such platforms, and, as a result of a shootout with them, the ozone layer would have been irreparably damaged and the atmosphere irradiated. The fight with terrorists, separatists, religious fanatics, and drug dealers was just as difficult. Ground operations against them had been accompanied by heavy losses, riled the population of the occupied areas, and required weeks, in not months or years. This allowed the criminal element to prepare its defenses, scatter among civilians, or deal preemptive strikes, which had grown worse and worse as progress moved forward, heavy weapons became handheld weapons, and handheld weapons became pocket weapons, and a vial of poison or a virulent strain could depopulate a city of millions. Intelligence agencies, armies, and commando teams had been powerless against these new challenges; they were too slow, unwieldy, and, most importantly, fighting the enemy on even terms, face to face, and blade to blade. A globally superior force had been necessary, as well as such mobility that the villains would know that they would be located and destroyed not in a month, not in a day, but in thirty minutes.

Everything had moved towards this end: spaceships, flying fortresses with powerful weapons, fighters, tanks, and marine teams could perform lightning-fast strikes from orbit. They could spot a lit match on Earth, pick up a suspicious airliner, freeze an oceangoing vessel into ice, flood caves and jungles with the "pacification gas", open up underground passages or burn poppy plantations with lasers. Three decades ago, during the age of the first admirals Young, Robin, and Ilyin, this had required a couple hours; now, a ship on combat patrol could react four times as fast.

Usually, these tasks were performed by the First Fleet, based on Luna, although ships of the Second and Third fleets could also be employed for punitive operations. The Second Fleet was stationed on Mars, and it was considered to be a reserve; as a rule, it serviced the USF research division and various scientific expeditions, the farthest of which was the multi-year approach to the Oort cloud. The most powerful and mobile was the Third Fleet, which had bases on Mercury and in the Asteroid Belt; its task was to monitor the Solar System, inspect mines and space stations, and assist persons in distress. For these reasons, the Third Fleet was scattered throughout space, and its battle squadrons, a heavy raider with two-three frigates or medium cruisers, could be far from one another. Gorchakov did not know exactly how far.

Dropping the cigarette into the waste disposal slot, he said, "We will need time to gather the ships you mentioned. Probably anywhere from several days to two weeks. Besides, this plan could cause confusion both in the Security Council and the USF headquarters. I am not sure I could push your idea through."

"Why not?"

"This Tlume fellow's allegations are too extravagant... But even if they agree with them and send ships, there is a better option. Two even." Gorchakov wiped his glasses, poured another cup of coffee, inhaled its pleasant aroma, and continued. "The coordinates and trajectory of the alien are unknown to us, but let's assume that it's moving from Jupiter to Earth, as the media insist. Then, if it is still beyond the orbit of Mars, then it would be intercepted by the Second Fleet, and if it gets close to us, then by the First. The main forces of these fleets are concentrated in large bases, not scattered throughout the whole system. Hence the obvious conclusion: this operation is for either Chavez or Haley, not Timokhin."

"Only if it is started immediately," Asadin noted. "But we shall not be hasty. Let's give Timokhin time, let's say three-four days, to redeploy the squadrons. Then, at the right time, he will have a sufficiently large fighting force in a suitable position. Where exactly, beyond the Martian orbit or closer to Earth, Timokhin should know better, that's why he's an admiral!" Then came a dry laugh, as if someone hit a tin can with a finger. "Is that a reasonable strategy, Boris Sergeyevich?"

"Quite. But bear in mind that my influence on Timokhin and the Security Council is not limitless."

"This I understand. I hope that the Security Council will not object to the maneuvers of the Third Fleet? Discuss this issue with your colleagues and call Timokhin. He will abide by the Security Council's decision."

Gorchakov gulped his coffee and nodded approvingly; the drink was moderately hot and strong. Exactly what was needed to support him on a sleepless night.

"One question, Vladlen Yurievich... Perhaps, you could suggest to me some compelling arguments? Not for the Security Council, for Timokhin."

Asadin sighed. In the cryptographer, this sound turned into a prolonged wheezing.

"It's an election year, Boris Sergeyevich. The President's concern over the safety of Earth will raise his chances. If there's something really out there... in the darkness... whatever trouble or joy it brings us, this is a turning point in the history of civilization. This is not the time for a change in leadership."

"And what if there," Gorchakov reflexively looked up, "is nothing out there?"

"Then we won't win anything, but we won't lose either."

"Except money. The transfer of four raiders with escorts is an expensive operation."

"Don't worry about that. First of all, the Union finances twenty-three percent of USF's expenses, and second, maneuvers maintain the soldiers' morale. I believe these arguments will be sufficient for the Security Council."

The house stood on the outskirts of Brussels, beyond the Maasdam Canal. A high-quality construction of the early 21st century: the reinforced concrete walls were covered on the outside with dark-gray plastic, inside there was oak paneling, strong floors and ceilings, durable ceramic roofing reinforced with a steel mesh. It was a one-story house, but it also had a basement, which the former owners had turned into a nursery. He had no children. He would not be able to have them if he wanted to; not here, not anywhere else. But he had been on Earth long enough to accept the concept of the growth of a living creature and its metamorphosis from a tiny clump of unreasoning flesh into a sentient being. Furthermore, children seemed more understandable and closer to him, as their physiological changes happened faster. Not as fast as his own, of course, but significantly more rapid than in adults.

He hadn't touched the nursery, leaving the soft floor and walls, painted with scenery of magical kingdoms populated by funny little creatures that reminded him somewhat of the Spolders, the other sentient race of his world. The room was empty, dimly-lit, and spacious, and he loved open spaces, feeling himself at his best in stadiums and large concert halls. Although he was quite used to the human customs of hiding in tiny closets packed with furniture and a multitude of devices, which produced a cacophony of noises. He easily adapted to any circumstances and looked human, but he was not one.

Now, he was lying on the floor and looking at a small ball hovering in front of his face. On the surface, this tiny spheroid was an exact copy of a kaff connecting the aliens with the Ship, but it was calibrated for the brain of a human. Besides communications, the sphere had other functions, but he doubted they could be implemented. It depended on the psychic power of the mind, which humans lacked; after all, they had climbed down from their trees so recently!

The Bino Faata of the Third Phase were older and more experienced, despite resembling the local descendants of anthropoids. Surprisingly similar, up to and including the possibility of interspecies mating, which could turn out bad for the humans, for physiological similarities did not mean the adequacy of psychology and social structure. The Faata had, most likely, accounted for that and were gathering information; there was no doubt that they would squeeze everything out of the captives, down to the last bit, neuron, and genome. Then again, as spatial probing showed, one of the captives was still in the active phase and could influence the situation. Of course, if he received the kaff in time and figured out what to do with it.

He laid motionless, gathering his strength and watching at the spheroid hovering in midair. He was not surprised that the Bino Faata, so similar to humans in appearance, were perceived by him as aliens invading humanity's habitat. Others, aliens, extraterrestrials… How many times had he repeated these words over the past several days, trying to convince the slow-witted and the distrustful! But it was not about the words and not even about the fact that he considered himself partly human. The situation was a lot simpler! He did not want to see Faata warships approaching his own homeworld one day.

Their expansion needed to be curbed, as was being done with the Silmarri, the Llyano, and the other races too aggressive and aspiring to be galactic overlords. Curb or, at least, not allow them to touch the artifacts of the Ancients. Stop them somewhere… So why not here?

He focused and made the first attempt. Unsuccessful! His distortion pulse got bogged down by the chaos of the quantum foam [Random fluctuations of the subquantum particles making up fields and matter. When attempting to distort space (instantaneously align two points together), the quantum foam acts as an opposing factor.] and was unable to overcome it. The distance was too great… Here, on Earth, he could easily transport himself to any point or teleport a mass of several dozen kilograms, but only at distances comparable to the size of a planet. The Faata ship was still too far away, between the Martian orbit and the Asteroid Belt; he would need to strain himself to send the tiny kaff there. Technically, he could wait; either way, the Ship was on the way to Earth, and piercing through space would require less effort every day. But would the captive still be alive a day later? Or two? Who could say?

For now, he could feel him through the abyss separating them. He felt his fury and determination, bewilderment and loneliness, sometimes confusion and fear… These feelings were strong and served as the beacon for the transportation of the kaff. This one was strong!

It was fortunate that he had been taken from a combat cruiser, and that this cruiser, as if guided by providence, had stood in the Ship's way. In essence, fluctuations were, like the quantum foam, a minor event, but a race's existence depended on it. Alternatively, the Bino Faata could have taken captives on Mars, on asteroids, or on a transport ship, and these people would have been random: administrators, construction workers, miners… They would have broken quickly, either with or without the kaff. But this marine…

He tensed again, staring at the ball and mentally pushing himself towards the captive. He did that again and again, until lighting flashed until the dark ceiling of the room and a thunderclap boomed.

The kaff vanished, and he closed his eyes in exhaustion.


	9. Chapter 8

_This is a fan translation of _Invasion_ (Вторжение) by Mikhail Akhmanov, currently only available in Russian and, because of the author's passing in 2019, unlikely to ever be published in English. This is the first book in a six-book series called _Arrivals from the Dark_ (Пришедшие из мрака), which also has a six-book spin-off series called _Trevelyan's Mission_ (Миссия Тревельяна)._

_I claim no rights to the contents herein._

* * *

**Chapter 8**

Near the orbit of Mars

"What is that?" Yo asked. "Why did they lower the container into the hole?"

She had been asking questions like that hundreds of times in the past several days, or rather cycles, as time was measured aboard the ship. What is that? Why? How come? For what purpose?.. The questions were telling him a lot. Litvin already understood that the aliens were trying to figure out the chaos of the transmissions, sounds, and images coming from Earth, Luna, and Mars. The level of scientific knowledge and technology, communications and transportation, structures in space and on planets were seemingly of little interest to them or, more likely, it was all clear without any commentary.

They did not have problems with such realities as war and peace, the use of force or power, human expansion into space, the technical progress. That which could be explained by the laws of logic and, obviously, had an equivalent in the aliens' own society, they understood without effort; the unclear and the vague was in the areas of feelings, the irrationality of the human soul, and the contradictions it bore. A series of important attributes of Earth's culture, such as religion, sex, art, humor, feelings of affection and love, appeared to them to be strange, incomprehensible, or unnecessary for a sentient being. They were, without a doubt, pragmatists, and pragmatism, the concern for the survival of their race, the psychic connection with one another and with the Ship united them a lot stronger than humans.

"What is that?" Yo repeated.

They were sitting on the floor of the compartment that served as Litvin's prison. Above, instead of the terminal dome, the azure sky shined, while holographic images flowed under it: dark-green candle-like cypresses, a freeway with a motorcade, stone slabs with engraved dates and names, a crowd surrounding a rectangular hole in the ground and a coffin being lowered there with ropes. It looked like they were burying an important person: the crowd was large, an orchestra played, and three priests in long robes were fussing near the grave.

"It's a cemetery," Litvin said. "This is where the dead are buried. The container is a coffin with a deceased person in it. There are different customs: some are buried into the ground, others are burned. If I died, I would be incinerated in a reactor and my ashes scattered in space. Astronauts call it 'going into the Great Void'."

He wanted to find out about McNeil. He saw her during his travels through the ship and was convinced that she was still being held with the sleeping women. Litvin did not understand why. It seemed they could have squeezed more information out of two captives than one… But McNeil had not returned to their chamber.

"Burying…" The kaff in Yo's dark hair blinked rapidly. "Now I understand. Once upon a time, before the First Eclipse, we did the same: burned the bodies, and, from the ashes, mixed with clay, made… No term. It was a very long time ago. Back at the homeworld."

"What do you do now?"

"Any organic matter is a resource for synthesizing food."

"You guys are an economic bunch," Litvin muttered. "So, for synthesizing food… And then what? Eaten and forgotten?"

"Memories of t'ho are not preserved. Activities of the fully sentient are recorded in… You call this device a computer."

"I call… Is that not the case?"

Yo did not answer. It was just the two of them for the past several days, without Yegg; perhaps because she was better at learning the language, and she was speaking English almost perfectly. But did she understand everything that was being said? Words were not psychic communication, merely sounds, and the meaning that was put in them depended on the experiences and the worldview of the other person. For example, the word "trust"… How did Yo and Yegg understand it? What about Iveh?.. Litvin himself did not feel any sense of trust towards Intermediary Iveh, although it was assumed that they had made a deal. Well, war was war: first deception, then destruction. If it worked, of course.

He bent down to the woman and spoke.

"Why are you silent? We did agree, you ask a question, I ask a question, you give an answer, I give an answer… If you're in doubt, ask Iveh."

"Sometimes, it's better not to ask too many questions," she said, but the sphere on her temple lit up. The landscape with the cemetery disappeared, replaced by three motionless figures, looking like mannequins: an Asian, an African, and a Caucasian. "Iveh is wondering…" Yo began, but Litvin shook his head.

"First my question, about the computer. Is it a logical machine or something else?

Yo raised her eyebrows, and her lips quivered. Her features no longer appeared to be a frozen mask, but Litvin did not know the cause behind these changes; it was possible that, by getting used to the aliens' appearance, he had lost the ability to read their facial expressions; it was also possible that Yo was copying his facial expressions. Right now, she was so much like a woman of Earth! And this scent… The scent was intoxicating.

"A machine is dead, but the Ship… The Ship is partly alive. Quasi-alive and quasi-sentient. I cannot explain it better, I am a t'ho, not a Faata. It's alive, but not like you or me, and it speaks to the fully sentient without any devices." Yo touched the kaff sphere.

"Artificial intelligence?"

"No. That existed during the Second Phase and resulted in yet another Eclipse. Now the mind of the Ship is not programmed but grown and taught. However, it grows and learns faster than we do."

"Is this an organic structure? Protein-based?

"Organic but not based on carbon. This substance… these creatures were found on one of the Abandoned Worlds. Where the Daskins once lived."

"Who?"

"The Elder Race," Yo whispered quietly. Her bright lips went white.

_It's getting more interesting by the minute,_ Litvin thought. A hundred questions were ready to slip off his tongue, including some about McNeil, but a deal was a deal. Sighing, he turned to the three holograms frozen in the middle of the compartment and spoke.

"Ask. What is Iveh interested in?"

"The status of these beings. You look like one of them, and the majority of those on your ship were also of the dominant type. But there were others, with dark skin, and two lighter ones but with narrow eyes."

Haruki, Japanese, third navigator, and Dennis Yue, Chinese-American, gunner, Litvin noted automatically. May space be their final resting place!

"The intermediaries have conflicting opinions," Yo said. "There are several hypotheses regarding their appearance and function."

"That would be interesting to hear."

"Intermediary Ade believes that these are your limited sentients. Their appearance was shaped to distinguish them from the dominant type. Tiy has a different opinion: he is convinced that they are the result of genetic experiments or mutation. Maybe there were affected by your world's ecology… But Iveh disagrees. He thinks that they are specialized beings, something like the ksa and the olks."

_A new word,_ Litvin noted and asked. "Who are the olks?"

"You have seen them. They are like…" Yo darted a glance in the direction of the membrane, behind which stood a guard troll. "Guard t'ho, a special variety…" The sphere in her hair sparked, and the woman stretched out a hand to the holographic images of humans. "Iveh says…"

"It doesn't matter what Iveh says. He and his intermediaries are mistaken, these are not mutants or artificial beings. Humans, like me. You already know that there are many languages on Earth, right?" Yo nodded, another perfectly human gesture. "So many languages, so many peoples, belonging to the three main races. They appeared during the process of evolution, the most natural way there is."

"But you are so different…" Yo whispered.

"He looks different from you." Litvin looked at the guard.

"This is the result of deliberate selection. But it appears to be different for you… such a rich gene pool…" The kaff blinked rapidly, and several seconds later the woman said, "Iveh is pleased. Valuable information."

"If that is true, then answer me this: why are they not returning Abby? She's been sleeping far too long!"

He did not even have time to react when something unprecedented happened; the kaff's light went out, Yo put a thin palm below, the ball quietly fell into it, and she hid it in her sleeve. She moved closer, stretched out her hand, touched Litvin's cheek, overgrown with dark prickly stubble. Her fingers were cool and gentle.

"Don't ask me about that. You will never see her again… Forget about it, if you don't want your life to be terminated. Knowledge is dangerous!"

"We did not agree to this…" Litvin started, but the woman stood up sharply and stepped towards the membrane. Her tight-fitting green clothing did not conceal anything, and he, with sudden excitement, saw how high and full her breasts were, how slender her stature was, how her shapely hips were swaying. His cheek continued to remember her touch.

Yo disappeared and so did her indifferent guard. For some time, Litvin sat in a daze, not attempting to get his feelings in order. A thought spun him around like a bird circling its nest; he thought about Yo's words, the sleeping Abby, and his own fate. He managed to find out so much! Not in detail, of course, but still, still… Perhaps, besides humans and the Faata the galaxy has other sentient races? These Daskins mentioned by Yo… and something else, something important, but not related to her hint about the dangers of knowledge…

He calmed down and immediately remembered. The _Lark_! Definitely the _Lark_! Yo had said, "the majority of those on your ship were also…" This meant that the cruiser had not been left to drift in space but was here! Kept in some hold of this interstellar tub, broken, crippled, full of dead bodies… Why leave it? A dead cruiser was a valuable catch from an information standpoint!

It would be nice to find it, Litvin thought. Maybe something survived, a Vulture, a Roach, even a combat suit… Even better would be the reactor! If he destabilized its magnetic bottle, it would make quite a bang! An excellent way of evening out the odds in negotiations with Iveh and his team!

Frowning, he turned to the membrane and gloomily looked it over. Empty dreams… He couldn't get out of his cell or find the cruiser… How could he find it in this enormous maze with hundreds of decks and thousands of compartments? The hallways were partitioned, there were too many transportation lines, and the computer, this quasi-sentient beast, was probably monitoring all movement…

Something pressed into his shin through the jumpsuit fabric. Without getting up, Litvin searched under his knee, felt something small, smooth, took it out, and brought it to up his eyes. There was a bead about fifteen millimeters in diameter on his palm, a tiny spheroid looking like an ideally-round pearl. He looked at this wonder for three or four seconds, then squeezed it in his fist, as if trying to hide from the computer's all-seeing eye. His head spun, and Yo's scent, that sweet scent, tickled his nostrils.

A kaff! A key, an interface! Her gift! Did she wish to help? Or was this a cunning trick? Someone wished to dig around in his brain?

Corcoran's face appeared in Litvin's mind: wandering eyes, trembling corner of the mouth, a trickle of saliva coming down the chin. A terrible sight! It would have been better to be caught by one's own swarms, like poor Rodriguez! He remembered Richard's prayer and, despite not believing in either God or the devil, clumsily made the sign of the cross.

"Lord, save and protect me! When I return to Smolensk, I will light a candle at the cathedral. I swear on the reactor!"

He raised his hand and touched the ball to his left temple. The spheroid seemed to glue itself to his skin. A minute passed, another, a third, but nothing seemed to happen. Then…

The walls of the compartment seemingly moved away, and the chamber's space unfolded in a hundred dimensions simultaneously. Litvin was still in the dumbbell-like room, but, at the same time, he was outside it; the giant body that had merged with him stretched up, down, to all sides, and was like to a spider web with an infinite multitude of strands, reaching to every point of the Ship: to each sensor, terminal, effector, to the drives and the transparent sphere displaying stars, to the outer hull plating, beyond which he saw the same stars, but they were infinitely farther. A thousand strands led to a thousand eyes, allowing him to simultaneously see a thousand different pictures: lifts, passages, transport pods, sections of bizarre shapes, spacious holds, empty or full of strange machines, a hall with people hanging in weightlessness, and other compartments, where aliens in skin-tight clothing moved, did something weird, floated in midair near spiral or tubular constructs enveloped by a white fog, connected to them by a web of wires. Amazingly, these images did not intersect or overlap one another, existing as if in separate windows, put together into a mosaic, not a flat one, but volumetric, multifaceted, like the eye of a dragonfly. Litvin spotted the enormous shaft of the hyperlight converter, toroidal drives for in-system flights, and something that looked like thick angular spikes, coming out of the hull row by row over the entire outer surface. He found plenty of curiosities inside as well, things he had not seen before on the Ship's diagram; for example, two cylindrical tunnels just as huge as the converter shaft and located on either side of it. Perhaps these were backup power plants; he could see massive rings inside them made up of the same spikes as on the outer hull.

These visions entranced Litvin so much, that he did not immediately detect someone else's presence. The sensation was unfamiliar, frightening even; he did not hear a rustle, no sound, did not see anything except for the mosaic of the colorful pictures, but he no longer had any doubts that, in this realm of silence and stillness, he was not alone. Holding his breath, he reached out to this mind and suddenly realized that there were many minds: some moved in the window-images or slept, submerged in t'hami, appearing as barely-visible shadows; others, motionless but clearly felt, were nested in the nodes of the enormous spider web. The first, he thought, belonged to people and slipped away from contact, like grains of sand in turbulent water, but he could touch the still ones. These minds were different: large ones were in points of intense branching, with clusters of lines spreading out like a crown, and the smaller ones in simple intersections. It wasn't long before Litvin figured out that he was looking at the Ship's nervous system, a multitude of nodes connected by communication lines. The largest of them was located under the sphere displaying the stars, likely a navigation device similar to the human-developed ANS.

He reached out to this device, and the necessary cell of the mosaic immediately expanded, revealing a dimly lit hall with an unseen but, most likely, a very high ceiling. Alcoves were visible on the periphery of the chamber with humanoid figures frozen in them, either wearing capes or wrapped in a weakly shimmering film. Connection ports, something like the cocoons in the Vultures, Litvin decided, focusing on the central dais. There, under a flat black disk, hung a sphere a meter-and-a-half in diameter, and three people floated near it. He recognized one immediately; it was Yata, the beaked Pillar of Order; the two others were, apparently, his assistants. Their hands were flying over the sphere, and sparks were playing in its depths in time with the movements. _Are they plotting a course?.._ Litvin thought, and this thought was suddenly responded with a clear assurance that he was not wrong.

The assurance was as clear as if someone had said "yes" to him. Actually, it did turn into a word, but he was unable to figure out the nature of the transformation; maybe the thought became a word under the influence from outside, or his mind, used to working with words, simply chose an adequate concept. Shuddering, Litvin clenched his jaws and, tilting his head back, looked up into the dark ceiling dome.

_Are you listening to me?_ he asked without words, and a clear response formed in his head.

_I lissten…_

_Who are you? A computer?_

_No. A quassi-living Sship… quassi-living, quassi-ssentient…_ And again, almost quieter, _Ship… Ship…_

This voice, disembodied and echoing in his mind, was very different from the previous hoarse croaking and seemed even scarier because of that. Overwhelmed, Litvin writhed on the floor. The shock experienced by him now was significantly greater than during his first meeting with the Bino Faata. Of course, they had come from the stars, but this fact merely confirmed their ability to think, speak, and act like humans or beings of another, unusual appearance, but still alive, sentient, and possessing individuality. Their appearance was really in the realm of wonders, whereas telepathic communication with objects (a kettle, a table, or a computer; it made no difference) seemed like frightening magic. Especially if the computer insisted that it was something more, like a quasi-living and quasi-sentient Ship…

But this was, apparently, true. Unable to figure out where this knowledge had come from, Litvin, however, understood that he was not faced with a clever program running on myriad electronic modules or with a dead object, but with a creature.

Incredible! Amazing and scary!

He reached to his temple to drop the kaff on the floor, but his hand froze halfway through. To give up this last chance? Foolish and unforgivable! It seemed that Yo's gift was not a Trojan Horse, which meant that it should be used. Get out from this chamber, get lost in the belly of the Ship, find McNeil, find the ruined _Lark_… Maybe get a weapon… He did not see any other options.

"Ship," he called out. "Ship!" And received a familiar response.

"I lissten…"

Does it merely listen, or would it obey as well? This needed to be tested. Quickly, before they detected him communicating with this strange creature.

"Do your masters know about our communication?"

"'Masters' is not an appropriate term. 'Symbiotes' is more correct." It paused, then asked, "Is it unnecessary to inform them?"

"Unnecessary." The habit to clearly form commands when speaking to a computer had won out, and Litvin added, "Accept this command: do not inform anyone about the communication established with me."

"Accepted."

"Can you open the membrane in this compartment?"

"No need. There are no movement barriers with a kaff."

Key, remembered Litvin, not only an interface but also a key. Making himself more comfortable, he asked the next question.

"Where is the _Lark_? The damaged ship that you took aboard?"

"In the cavity meant for cargo."

"How do I get there?"

A multicolored diagram appeared, identical to the one he'd seen when entering the pod. Several lines blinked, marking a route.

"Beyond the compartment are an antechamber and a hallway. To the left is a port of the transportation line."

"How far?"

"By Earth measurements, seventy-two and a half meters."

Pushing up from the elastic floor, Litvin stood and, without hesitation, headed for the membrane. Now it was intangible, just as the other one, separating the far section of the compartment from a zigzag passage. Passing this antechamber and crossing yet another weakly glittering veil, he found himself in a wide hallway that appeared to stretch into infinity. He had already been here, during his first walk with Yo and Yegg, but then they had taken him in a different direction, to the gravity shaft, if his memory served. That elevator without doors and cabs took them up, to the halls, where circles of lights were spinning and flashes twinkled like the aurora borealis behind transparent walls. According to Yo, those were devices, clarifying the chart of Sol's neighborhood: luminosities and spectrums of stars, their masses, and numbers of planets. At the time, Litvin had thought that the Bino Faata probably came from hundreds of parsecs away, since this part of the galaxy was unfamiliar to them. _Should I clarify?.._ a thought came, but he pushed away his curiosity. There were more important things to do.

"The transportation line port to the left," he muttered and went down the deserted hallway. The eye of the dragonfly with its multitude of image windows was still present somewhere in his consciousness like a vague mirage. All he had to do was close his eyes, and it became bright and clear; apparently, the transmission went straight to visual center of the brain. This bothered him, and Litvin, mentally reaching out to the unseen entity, ordered, _Remove the visuals. Let me know when I get to the transport._

The mental image dissipated, but the sensation of the connection to the enormous creature in whose depths he was now wandering did not leave him even for a moment. This entity seemed to Litvin to be like a mollusk, living in a tough shell and capable of moving through the ocean of stars, nebulae, and gas clouds. The image of the enormous mollusk haunted him, but the mind hidden in the Ship did not respond; it looked like it did not understand such complex associations.

"Quasi-sentient," Litvin spoke, breaking the silence in the hallway. "Quasi means imaginary, fake... Definitions that don't apply to a mind. A mind either exists or it doesn't, a simple binary logic without any quasis or pseudos. What do you say, pal?"

No confirmation, no denial. It appeared that the Ship only reacted to specific questions.

He walked about a hundred paces when the voice in his mind came back.

_The port. In the alcove to the left._

"What is on the other side?"

_Cavity for t'ho adaptation._

But Litvin did not see any cavities or halls. There was a balcony without any trace of a fence, a large semicircular ledge, hanging over empty space and separated from the hallway by a wall with glittering membranes. He looked around, glanced at the alcove with a dark domed ceiling, then smirked and headed for the nearest membrane without hesitation. The emptiness in it turned out to be the sky, but so unlike Earth's; a greenish light trickled down from above, creamy and lilac clouds floated past, an orange sun shone and another one, pale, ghostly, like the Moon rising above the nightly horizon. Taking several more steps, Litvin looked over the balcony's edge. Beneath him, about fifteen or twenty meters distant, was a pleasant terrain: a hillside overgrown by a brown moss or low dense grass, a river bend, flowing around the elevation, and behind it, on the horizon, other hills and trees, planted in precise circles. Between the hill and the river, on a smooth shore, small human figures were moving. Litvin thought they were hopping, jumping, tumbling, reminding him of a group of kids having fun outdoors.

But they were not children; he saw their skulls, glistening in the sunlight, powerful scruffs and shoulders, muscles covered by armor.

"Ship!"

_I am listening._

"What is going on down there?"

_Adaptation of t'ho to the environment._

Peering down, Litvin bent over the edge of the balcony.

"They're not just t'ho. They're guards, right? Olks?"

_Olks,_ the voice in his consciousness confirmed. _Training in a planetary environment._

"Training? For what purpose? Why are they..."

He did not have time to finish asking the question. The light suddenly blinked, the suns, hills and trees, the river shore and the clouds dissolved, and Litvin found himself on a balcony attached to the inner surface of an enormous empty cylinder. About fifty people were crowded at the bottom of the chamber, all naked, muscular, hairless; they stood and, lifting their heads, looked up at him. Then something changed; he felt himself get lighter, like a balloon, although the concepts of up and down had not yet disappeared. _They've lowered the gravity,_ Litvin realized. _Why?_

A moment later, three of the guards, quickly pushing away from the floor, soared up to his balcony. They did not have bracelets of armor, but even without that gear they looked imposing, as befitted trolls: broad fearless faces, powerful shoulders and arms created to break and crush. The first of them landed a foot away from Litvin, and he, not waiting to be grabbed, kicked the opponent into the knee with his heavy boot. The olk flew away into the wall, hitting his head on it, while Newton's Third Law threw Litvin to the opposite wall; however, he, twisting in the air, absorbed the impact with his feet. Combat in zero or low gravity was a subtle and treacherous art, which could not be learned on Earth or even on Luna; it was taught on USF orbital bases and honed to perfection in the Asteroid Belt. There, any inspection of a mine or another enterprise could end in a drunken brawl, a fight in a miners' bar, or a battle with smugglers. In shafts, caves, and tunnels, tanks and Vultures were useless, and everything was decided like in the old days, with handheld weapons and training.

Litvin had excellent training. The second opponent had barely appeared above the edge of the balcony, when he pushed him, slammed the back of his head into the wall, drove his knee into the groin, and threw him down. But he was unable to catch the third and final opponent; this one skillfully stopped, crabbing the edge of the balcony with his feet, and went on the attack. Strangely, he did not try to strike, instead simply grabbed Litvin's arm and began to squeeze like a vise. His strength was incredible, but Litvin still felt that he was fighting a living person rather than a mountain. Striking his wrist, he broke out of the alien's grip, swiped with his leg to drop the guard on the floor, pressed down with his knee on the rump and, grabbing his chin, pulled. In this position, the vertebrae begin to crackle, and bloody circles appear in eyes, but the troll did not give in.

"You got an iron spine, pal," Litvin exhaled through his teeth and punched him into the base of the skull. The olk wheezed, went limp, and he threw him down from the balcony. Then, anticipating another attack, quickly retreated to the membrane and slipped out into the hallway.

There, in the depth of an alcove, a transport pod awaited him. It rocked under his weight, but immediately became steady and, accelerating, dashed forward. The walls flashed past, merging into a dark ribbon. Litvin wiped the perspiration from his forehead and sighed in relief. Then he asked, "Will they pursue?"

_No. Olks are unable to get to the upper hallway._

"Why?"

_They cannot pass through the membrane without gear._

"What gear?" Litvin thought and immediately got an answer.

_Physical activity enhancers._

"The bracelets?"

_Yes. They are multifunctional devices. Not like kaffs, but they also function as keys._

"Had these guys been wearing all their equipment, I would've had a bad day," Litvin muttered with a grim smile. "So, what now? I hope I didn't kill anyone. The last one looked like he lost consciousness... Is he alive?"

_No fatalities. Although a strike to a nerve cluster can result in death._

"What cluster? Where is it located?"

_Where the skull meets the neck vertebrae,_ the Ship informed him and fell silent.

A vulnerable spot, Litvin realized, trying to recall if this area was covered by armor. Either way, though, it was obvious that he could not match a guard in full gear. He vividly remembered running into the olk when getting into the pod; he'd felt like he hit a rock. Strike, don't strike, useless either way... Might made right.

The tiny carriage started to slow down smoothly, then stopped, and a light flared on the transportation diagram hanging in midair. Upper holds, Litvin decided, already a little versed in the Ship's topology. These cavities lay above the converter's pipe and the two enormous shafts which he assumed were power plants. Under all this machinery were kilometer-long hangars, lower holds symmetrical to the upper ones. Naturally, concepts like up and down were arbitrary; judging by the gravlifts, they were controlling gravity locally, in each area of the inner space.

_The cavity with the crippled ship is behind the exit membrane_, the disembodied voice informed him, and Litvin, leaving the pod, plunged into complete darkness.

_I hope there are no guards here,_ a thought came, and another one followed. "The olks from the riverbank could raise the alarm… Can you calm them down?"

_I can erase memories about what happened._

Litvin froze in mid-step.

"So that's it! You can manipulate the human consciousness? Memory?"

_Within acceptable limits. These are not the fully sentient Faata, but olks, the lowest of the t'ho. Mere olks._

"You program their minds?"

_No, that is done by the Faata._ After a beat, the voice added, _I can only perform small corrections unnoticed by the symbiotes._

"Well then, do it," with this, Litvin continued walking in the darkness, then stopped again." Give me light! I can't see a thing."

A dim glow spilled from above, lighting up the hangar. In its gigantic belly, the _Lark_ looked like a small silver bullet in a cylindrical tin can. It lay on the bottom, without the landing gear, and that was a troubling sign; the feeling was worsened by dented plating on both sides, ruined turrets, black pockmarks on the silvery armor and a web of cracks stretching between them. The impact of the ice particles flying at enormous speeds had come diagonally into the upper section of the hull and swept away radars, long-range communication antennae, laser batteries, and a stabilizer thruster. Here, in the alien hold, the destruction had been completed: the stern with the reactor section was gone, and enormous holes gaped in the side armor. The _Lark_, a bird with a fiery tail, soaring among the stars, was now as dead as an ancient dinosaur.

"These bastard cut out the reactor… nothing to explode…" Litvin muttered in disappointment. He circled the ship and confirmed that the missiles, the _Lark_'s most powerful weapons, were also gone, while the fighters and the Sims, the amphibious tanks, sticking out from the cracked hatches, looked like sieves. The reflected swarm volley had pierced the ship completely, from the bridge and deck A to the aft stabilizer thrusters. The divergence of the particle cluster had been small, they had flown densely, and it was unlikely that anything about the _Lark_ survived.

Tormented by bitter foreboding, Litvin got aboard through a large hole, walked down a dark hallway onto the bridge and stopped at the watch officer's chair. Jacques Chevreuse was supposed to sit here, the pilots beside him… The captain's chair was behind it, on a small dais; to the left, near the computer terminal, was Navigator Seidel's place, Communications Officer Szabó used to sit to the right… Besides them, there were the Chief Engineer, the Second Officer, and, maybe, other officers, summoned by the alert. Litvin had expected to find dead bodies, jumpsuits covered in bloodstains, bone fragments in gaping wounds… But there was nothing! The gloom reigning in the compartment did not hide the image of the destruction, broken screens, torn console panels, chairs and bulkheads riddled with holes, the cracked ANS panel. But there were no bodies.

"Light," Litvin yelled out, "more light! A lot!"

A bright spot flashed to life above him. Now he saw bloodstains on the floor and chair covers, even an entire blood torrent flooding the computer panel, but there were still no corpses. No B.J. Cassidy, no Chevreuse, no Prizzi, no Bondarenko, none of the others. Only a ripped sleeve with the still glowing strip of a timer was lying under a pilot's chair.

Followed by the bright firefly, he dashed out onto the quarterdeck, to the hallway on deck A, ran, crunching plastic fragments, past the broken portraits of the previous crew, climbed up the ladder, and dove into the open hatch leading to a turret. There were four battle stations here for gunners: two operators for swarms and two for lasers. Nobody! Only maimed consoles, the shattered dome of the targeting designator, and dried blood on the floor and walls.

Getting out of the turret, Litvin stood in the passage, no longer dark but flooded with light, which only added to the sadness. The holograms of pilots and marines, those that still had eyes, looked at him with reproach, as if demanding a report: why did you lose the ship, boy? The ship, the entire crew, even the remains, so he couldn't even cover the bodies with a flag and lower them into the reactor… Even the reactor was gone, and she wasn't even a ship without it! Just a tub with about a million holes!.. Caused by her own weapons, no less…

He gritted his teeth and asked, "Are they looking for me yet?"

_No. It is known that the circadian rhythm of the terrestrial Bino Tegari requires sleep. Eight hours are allocated to sleep. Only two-point-six hours have passed._

"So they think I'm sleeping? Good! We have time then… What about the olks who attacked me?"

_They were sent into t'hami, to rest. They will wake up without any memories of what happened._

"Even better," Litvin said gloomily. "And now, tell me, pal, where are my friends? There were over a hundred people aboard the _Lark_, and they all died. Where are their bodies?"

_They were used as research materials._

As if a relay clicked in Litvin's head, his internal sight came on. An image window came closer, the picture expanded, displaying a long row of machines with transparent cells filled with a blue liquid. Inside, surrounded by needles and multi-fingered manipulators, floated human organs: a liver, a heart, lung tissue, ovaries, kidneys. This anatomical exhibition moved away, new containers replaced them, each one holding something; sometimes, that something moved. A stomach, an ear, a kneecap, a foot, a bladder, teeth, and hair samples… A hand severed at the elbow stuck out of a flexible pipe, its fingers constantly moving, bending, unbending, and Litvin, stuck in stupor, tried to figure out who it belonged to. Headless torsos, legs, cleaned skeletons, and bodies with gaping holes lay in sarcophagi, which were longer than the cells. It was impossible to recognize the people; their faces and flesh had been mutilated, either by the impact of ice particles or by a surgeon's merciless scalpel.

The image zoomed in; now eyes were staring at him: dark, gray, blue, green. There were dozens of them, and all of them were hanging on hair-thin lines of the optic nerves, coming from somewhere above. Several units of the smallest cells were occupied by tissue samples; blinding dots of light slid all over them, unceremoniously groping them. Transparent containers, either still or spinning extremely fast, contained liquids: blood, lymph, and something else, murky or clear, colorless or with a blood-crimson hue. It seemed that the entire crew of the _Lark_ had ended up here and, packaged into alien machines, was telling them secrets that, perhaps, should never be revealed.

Litvin swallowed convulsively.

"Cut apart like cattle… Why?"

_An optimal strategy,_ the Ship explained. _Before initiating contact with the Bino Tegari, it is necessary to study them. Physiologically and psychologically. Initial specimens are selected for that._

"Do the specimens themselves complain?" Litvin's fists were clenched, his muscles straining.

_Such is the unavoidable price of understanding. Basic protein structures, energy metabolism, microbiota, how a living being functions, its relationship with the environment, nutrition, reproduction, and mentality; all these things need to be studied. It eases communication. It permits the determination whether the new natural environment is suitable for the Bino Faata._

"And? Is ours suitable?" Litvin spoke in a muffled tone, scrutinizing someone's heart. Metallic hoses gleamed on its coronary arteries, wires coming out of them; the heart contracted and expanded, passing a blue liquid.

_It is adequate in almost all biological parameters._

"If so, then we'll have to defend it," Litvin waved his hand, breaking out of the stupor. "Remove this morgue. We'll now descend to deck C to the marine arsenal and see what's left there. After that, you will tell me about the Bino Faata, your dear symbiotes. In detail! About their physiology and psyche and other important things. Where they came from, why, and what the hell they want here." He suddenly sneered furiously, shook his fists and muttered, "Have you ever seen a sky full of diamonds?"

_No._

"Well, you will. If I get out of here…"

_Escape is impossible,_ his disembodied companion informed him. _All initial specimens are subject to termination._


	10. Chapter 9

_This is a fan translation of _Invasion_ (Вторжение) by Mikhail Akhmanov, currently only available in Russian and, because of the author's passing in 2019, unlikely to ever be published in English. This is the first book in a six-book series called _Arrivals from the Dark_ (Пришедшие из мрака), which also has a six-book spin-off series called _Trevelyan's Mission_ (Миссия Тревельяна)._

_I claim no rights to the contents herein._

* * *

**Chapter 9**

Between the orbits of Earth and Mars, and on Earth

They retired to a deep alcove designed for resting. From there they could not see the lights glowing in the observation sphere, but the psychic connection to it was still present, as it remained with Those Who Stand by the Sphere, and with the t'ho pilots who were guiding the Ship to the inhabited world. Their bodies weakly glowed through the contact film, their minds perceived as tiny spots in intersections of the mental spider web. The lives of these t'ho were brief, measured in a thousand cycles, like every being of limited sentience who had become an appendage of the Ship. But unity with it, and the sense of its great might brightened the pilots' fate.

"The captive has disappeared," Iveh said, accompanying his words with a mental image, that of a large olk-like Bino Tegari in loose-fitting clothing. "A pity. I thought he would cooperate with us. He was not being harmed. I even agreed to show him the Ship."

Yata remembered this captive, the first of the captured specimens, which he had seen upon waking up. Indeed, he was large and, likely, aggressive.

"When did this happen?" Tiych, the Keeper of Communications, asked. He was young and impatient, having been born on the New Worlds, whereas the long-lived Iveh, the Speaker with the Bino Tegari, had witnessed the beginning of the Third Phase. In the Sheaf leading the expedition, Tiych was considered fourth and most junior by rank. But now only three were conferring: the Strategist Kaya, the Guardian of the Heavens, was waiting out his tuahha.

The Intermediary stretched his lips, which was a sign of irritation.

"I do not know for sure. The human vital rhythm includes a period of unconsciousness about once every three-quarters of a cycle. It is not t'hami but a natural process, like our ancestors of the First Phase. During these periods, my assistants departed, and I did not work with the specimen. But, naturally, he remained under the Ship's observation."

Everything Iveh was saying fit into several sounds and thoughtforms. The sounds were the first layer of communication, consisting of words that could not be easily substituted by mental equivalents, such as "rhythm", "process", "period", "cycle". More concrete concepts related to humans, his own assistants, or ancestors, the Speaker transmitted visually, through vivid images, accompanying them by a defining word when necessary. But there was also a third layer, composed of feelings and emotions: the confusion and anger with which Iveh had admitted his ignorance, and a rebuke addressed to Tiych when the Ship was mentioned.

An unjust rebuke, Yata decided. Unlike himself, as well as the Intermediary and the Strategist, the Keeper did not make decisions; he was a specialist in psychic communication with the Ship and could only explain and comment. At most, he could give advice.

Advices or even explanations were necessary now; Yata understood that, without the Ship's help, it was impossible to pass through the enclosing membrane. Which meant that the captive had established contact with it. Not only that, but he'd managed to use it, learning to imitate the necessary psychic signals. How? By watching Iveh's assistants?.. That went contrary to the initial conclusions of the Pillar of Order.

"I attempted to establish a link with him." Yata put his fingers to his lips, then made a gesture that meant the flow of thought. "The attempt failed. At the moment, it seemed to me that these Bino Tegari were unreceptive to brain emissions. You, Iveh, studied the second one and came to the same conclusion."

"Not entirely, Pillar of Order. I discovered that we cannot psychically communicate with them, both directly and with the use of devices meant for t'ho. But that could be a clever deception. The second specimen stubbornly resisted and eventually died."

"It is difficult to deceive you, Intermediary," Yata said and received emotions of confusion and regret in reply. Touching Tiych's mind, he asked, "Can this Bino Tegari influence the Ship's consciousness? And if he can, to what extent?"

"Any fully sentient being is capable of that, but his influence is limited: on the one hand, by his own psychic power, on the other, by the Ship's survival instinct. Your range of psychic influence is very broad, but even you, Pillar of Order, cannot force the Ship to die. It will refuse such a command."

"Does this mean that the escaped captive will be unable to harm us?"

"With the use of the Ship, absolutely not. He has access to food, information exchange, unrestricted movement, but that's about it. No dangerous order will be obeyed."

Yata pondered for some time. There was no doubt that the Bino Tegari had blocked the information about his presence, and looking for him in the depths of the Ship without knowing the exact location was an uneasy task, more likely a hopeless one. Of course, the Pillar of Order's commands had priority, but would they have enough power to neutralize the escapee's order? This depended on the ratio of psychic potential, and the capabilities of humans in this respect had, apparently, been underestimated by Iveh. The data coming from Earth in a constant stream included messages about highly-sensitive individuals, but the Intermediary attributed them not to reality but to that obscure area that humans called "art". But what if?.. What if the Speaker had failed to distinguish truth from fabrication?..

He touched Tiych again.

"How do we find the escapee? If I give the Ship an order—"

The Keeper was suddenly gripped by fear, which reflected in Yata's consciousness as a loud ringing blow.

"No! No, Pillar of Order! It is dangerous to break restrictions by force! The Ship is not t'ho, its organization is much more subtle. Conflicting commands could disturb its mental balance. And then…"

There was no need to explain what would happen then. Quasi-sentient creatures, a legacy of the Daskins, were harmless, until they grew into larger specimens, connected to effectors: weapons, drives, power plants. With a damaged control link, all this could become dangerous, even worse far from home and surrounded by enemies. However, living quasi-sentients, on which the technology of the Third Phase was based, had a number of advantages over dead machines: ease of reproduction, direct psychic connection, self-repair when damaged, longevity and reliability. Yata remembered as well as Tiych the primary condition of reliability: avoiding giving it contradictory orders.

"Very well," he said, "I will not interfere. Find him yourself. In such a way as to avoid disturbing the equilibrium. You Keepers have your own methods."

"Yes," Tiych agreed, and his eyes glazed over. Only Keepers could go into such a deep trance. While in this trance, only they could protect their individuality from completely melding with the Ship.

Yata mentally peered into the observation sphere, received information from Those Who Stand, then turned to Iveh.

"We are beyond the orbit of the fourth planet… what do they call it?.. Mars?.. It is leaving us, but I will not pursue it or send modules there. There are small human colonies there, and there are no more of them in the asteroid belt. We will take possession of it all once we reach Earth. A highly populated world… How many are there, by your estimate?"

"Seven to eight billion," the Intermediary said. "Many more than there are Faata and t'ho on the New Worlds. A prolific race and, unlike us, always ready for reproduction. A valuable resource."

"Do you have sufficient knowledge to enter negotiations?"

"I know their primary language, I know how to protect us from their diseases, and I know much more. Not everything, but the main things, Pillar of Order. You can lower the screening field. Let them see us."

"I will do that in a few cycles." Thinking about the destroyed Silmarri ship, Yata added, "We need to hurry, Speaker. By the time a new generation matures, we need to dominate this system. There are so few of us… and our ksa are not very prolific…"

Iveh relaxed his lips, letting them droop to his chin. It was a sign of pleasure.

"There are interesting possibilities, Pillar of Order. The humans are similar to us, very similar, a lot more than the Aers, Troni, or P'ata; I don't mean only their external similarities, but also on a deeper, genetic level. There are differences, but my assistants believe that they can be overcome. If we produce a hybrid race, then we will get new t'ho, billions of t'ho: servants, warriors, workers. It is a guarantee of prosperity for the Third Phase and death to its enemies."

Sensing an emotional outburst, Yata responded with the ritual worlds.

"So be it. Let us never again see the darkness of an Eclipse!" Then he spoke. "You said that you do not know everything about Earth, but you do know the main things. What things?"

"It is strange to us, Pillar of Order, almost inconceivable, but the captive helped us figure it out. They are not a unified society. They are split into groups that do not understand each other's languages, possess parts of Earth's surface, and do not recognize central authority. There is a certain hierarchy to these groups, there are the powerful and the weak, the feuding and the allied, and, of course, the dissatisfied. It is a very ancient structure and a very stable one. It is determined not only by language, appearance, territory, but also by other, as yet unclear, factors. Art, tradition, religion… They do not have analogues in our own ancient history. For example, their religion: veneration of all-powerful beings that exist beyond the edge of the universe–"

"The Daskins?" Yata interrupted. "They know about the artifact on the gas giant?"

"No, I'm not sure… Religion is something else, Pillar of Order. I did say that our history has no analogues. They..."

Since they lacked familiar thoughtforms, the Speaker's explanations included more and more gestures and words and became more and more vague. It was unlikely that he himself had completely studied all the oddities of the local Bino Tegari, but the main concept was understandable. Upon grasping it, Yata spread his hands and spoke.

"Enough. I understand that they struggle for power over their planet and star system. The same way we are struggling with the Silmarri, the Llyano, and other races. You are correct, Intermediary, this can be used. Promise them much… everything the various groups desire… then crush some and support the others… This will completely split them up."

"Will you summon the Guardian from t'hami?"

"I will. It is time."

Tiych came to. His eyes wandered, large beads of sweat appeared on his temples.

"I examined the thermal field charts. In this section there is a weak heat source. The only one and almost motionless." Unfolding the diagram of the Ship, the Keeper directed a light pointer towards one of the storage cavities. "This is where the human space module is being kept… Is anyone working in it?"

"All work has been completed," Yata said, looking at the diagram, while deep in thought. "It is the captive. He has reached his module… I can open this cavity and throw him out into space. Both the Bino Tegari and the remains of his mechanism."

Tiych began to worry.

"I do not recommend it. Your command will go through the Ship's mind, the escapee will try to counteract, also on a psychic level… The struggle of potentials can disturb the equilibrium. It is better to send olks. Olks with p'hots."

"Let them go without p'hots and take him alive," Iveh added.

"You still need him?" Yata asked. "I believe that it is better to destroy him. You still have a third specimen."

The Intermediary stretched his lips in displeasure.

"A female, ksa, and she is undergoing a special study. But I need this prisoner to–"

"It is better to destroy," the Pillar of Order interrupted. "He is in contact with the Ship, and I don't like that. I have sentenced him!"

Tiych and Iveh simultaneously folded their arms into the gesture of respect.

"Voss! Where are you, Voss?" Angelotti roared, gripping the armrests and looking at the TV screen. The tiny microphone quivered and spun around his lips, like a fly that had gotten caught in a fan jet.

"In Tierra del Fuego," came a reply in his earphone. Gunther Voss's voice was barely audible against the backdrop of rumbling, rustling, and rattling. It sounded like there, on the other side of the world, mountains were crumbling under the assault of hundreds of jackhammers, or that Voss was battling a herd of bulldozers.

"What the hell!.. Why are you there? Why not in New York? Do you hear me, Voss? Why–"

"No need to shout, boss, I can hear you just fine." The rumbling moved away; Voss must have entered a room. "Since you called me away from my vacation, I will figure out where I should be and what I should do myself."

"First of all, I did not call you away," Angelotti said in a lower tone. "And second, Sam Clemens is speaking in New York, in the Bunker. With an extraordinary USF statement… I'm watching him on TV right now… And where are you, you son of a bitch? In Tierra del Fuego? Is that right, or am I missing something?"

"No, you're right. Dick Strauser is in the Bunker. He's sitting there and listening to empty chatter."

"Dick Strauser is no Gunther Voss. It wasn't Dick Strauser who dug up this Liu fellow, it wasn't Dick who wrote two scandalous articles, Dick is not the star of the _CosmoSpiegel_! When Clemens opens his mouth, I want my best digger to be nearby. You, not Strauser!"

"Boss, I'm flattered. I can barely hold back the tears of emotion."

Something roared in the earphone, and Angelotti jumped up and fell back down into the chair. That would have been it for the piece of furniture if not for its titanium frame.

"What's going on there, Gunther? A volcanic eruption?"

"No, they're purging the nozzles."

The head of the _CosmoSpiegel_ choked, "W-what nozzles?"

"On the admiral frigate _Suzdal_." Now it was Voss who was yelling at the top of his voice, trying to overcome the noise and the rumbling. "Were you born yesterday, boss, or did you have one cocktail too many? I'm on the USF astrodrome in Chile, the Tierra del Fuego base! Admiral Timokhin, after consulting with the UN Security Council, is departing for the Third Fleet! He agreed to give an exclusive interview, but only to three reporters! One from each Shareholder! There are Medvedev from the _Moscow Fires_, Lynn from the _Washington Post_, and me! Do you get it now?"

"Madonna mia! Why didn't you say that in the first place?" Angelotti glanced at the screen, where Sam Clemens, the chief USF spokesman, was droning on about the maneuvers of the Third Fleet, and muted it. "You are some weasel, Gunther! How did you get to Timokhin? Who helped? And how much will it cost?"

"Clemens helped, absolutely free."

"Wow! And here I thought he didn't like you."

"He hates me, but he's also afraid. He decided that it would be better to keep me at a distance. If I started another scandal in the Bunker, it could cost him his job."

The rumbling grew quieter, and Voss quickly spoke.

"Timokhin is walking to the ship. His adjutants are calling us… warning that each of us gets three minutes… The Admiral is frowning like he ate tons of shit in New York… Gotta run, boss!"

There was silence in the earphone. Angelotti snorted happily, called his secretary and asked her for a martini with a double shot of vodka. Watching Michelle making his drink, while gracefully swaying her hips, the head of the _CosmoSpiegel_ was musing on the paths that had led to success and fortune. Then he took a sip from the glass and beckoned the girl with his sausage-like finger.

"No need to hurry, my darling. What do you think is needed for a successful career? So that no one could pass you, so that you could screw Fortuna first and that everybody else could only clang their teeth at you with jealousy?"

Michelle turned, tossing her short skirt, and, obviously asking for a compliment, demonstrated her long, shapely legs. But Angelotti only winced.

"Not that, my dear, not that. A scandalous reputation, that's what's needed!" he downed his cocktail and repeated. "A scandalous reputation!"

Timokhin was grim. Sitting in the admiral's cabin of the _Suzdal_, his face was frowning as he was examining the mural decorating the opposite wall: Saint George on a white horse, piercing a dragon with a flaming spear. He liked this piece of art a lot less than the winged lions on the Lunar Base. The lions with the faces of the ancient kings exuded greatness, but this dragon, slant-eyed and yellow, had obviously moved here from China, and as for the saint, his features were based on Ilyin, the first Russian admiral in the USF command triad. This example of obvious bootlicking was three decades old; the _Suzdal_ was an old ship, demoted from a light cruiser and refitted several times. But no matter what they did with her, the mural remained unchanged.

That wasn't right, one had to keep up with the times, Timokhin thought. Replace Ilyin with the Russian President, and the Chinese reptile with an alien, the scarier the better! And instead of the horse, there would be Admiral Timokhin himself, in a harness with tiny bells and long donkey ears. Exactly as things were, in accordance with the situation…

Maneuvers! That was right, maneuvers! They had been fine without them for three decades, had even forgotten the word! The fleet and the marine corps did not maneuver, they did their jobs! On Mars, Mercury, Venus, and in the Asteroid Belt! And, most importantly, on Earth. Endless wars: West versus East, Neoluddites versus the world cartels, ecoterrorists and the Crimson Jihad versus everyone else… Combat patrols, inspections, capturing smugglers, assisting ships and people in distress… Plus the colonization of Mars, Venusian stations, and mines in the asteroids… There was no time for maneuvers!

If only they were just maneuvers, but this, to counteract a hypothetical extraterrestrial threat… Then again, Timokhin would have swallowed this crap if not for the pressure from the homeland. Now that had been unpleasant! Doubly unpleasant that he was being pressured by Boris Gorchakov, a good friend, and, in the past, a fellow serviceman in the Amur missile division. Pressured and even reminded him to whom Admiral Timokhin owed his high position.

Hopefully, this would not become a norm, timing the activities of the fleet with presidential elections, he thought. The Yanks and the Canadians were savvy boys, they could use it as an example… Their elections were in sixteen months; what if they pressed Haley to go conquer Pluto with an American team?.. That was dangerous! Not only because of the waste of forces and resources, but also because that would break the unity of the fleet. The Space Forces were a supranational organization, and it should not be divided into a Russian, American, or, say, Francospanish part. And that was exactly what Gorchakov had demanded, to gather ships with Russian crews! The _Sakhalin_ and the _Pamir_ were in a convenient position, on Ceres, and Timokhin could not object to them, but the _Taiga_ was on the far side of the Sun and was on its way to Eros to pick up specialists from the asteroid division. He decided not to recall the _Taiga_, adding the _Lancaster_ to the flotilla's composition without informing Gorchakov. And, of course, he did not touch the _Barracuda_, which was on its way to Jupiter, well, to the place where the planet had been nine days ago. This story with maneuvers and aliens had only one sensible thought: if the _Barracuda_ suddenly requested aid, they would be able to reach her quickly.

He stood up and peeked into the neighboring compartment, where three navigators, bent over light pads and computers, were plotting their course. Not only for the _Suzdal_ but for the cruisers and their squadrons; they were to be taken straight to the rendezvous point, 2.32 AU from the Sun, on the radius vector of the _Barracuda_, which was currently beyond the orbit of Mars. The sight of the working officers calmed Timokhin down, but, returning to the cabin and glancing at St. George and the dragon, he once again felt disgusted with his life.

Extraterrestrials, damn it! And everything had started with that flash near Jupiter! Jarvis, the third adjutant, had reported that the scientists aboard the Kepler Observatory considered it a glitch in the instruments, but this, apparently, satisfied neither the reporters nor the politicians. He could understand the reporters, though, they couldn't make any money on a glitch, but the politicians surprised him. Then again, it wouldn't be the first time.

The usual brouhaha, Mägi had said, it would die down in about a week. Instead…

Timokhin gritted his teeth, trying to forget the fellow serviceman Boris, the Security Council session, and the final minutes before launch. At Gorchakov's urgent request, he had met with members of the press, but only three of them and for a very brief time. With the obvious goal of hinting about who cared about Earth's safety the most. As expected, this question had been raised by the Moscow reporter, after which the Yankee from the _Washington Post_ wanted to know if the Admiral believed in aliens. Timokhin had skirted answering with a joke. The third of these scribes, a thin nosy fellow, sprung a surprise on him, introducing himself as Voss from the _CosmoSpiegel_, the same one who had started this whole mess. The Admiral had wanted to see him even less than a laser pointed at his temple, but he had to contain himself. This one had asked about the composition of the flotilla and, finding out that it contained a frigate, three raiders, and eight medium cruisers, smirked happily, bent down to Timokhin and whispered, "Do not use missiles or swarms, Admiral, the defense shield will deflect them. Try to open it up with lasers, a sudden strike at full power. But beware…"

At the time, Timokhin, keeping a poker face, had turned, nodded to the officers making up his retinue, and started walking to the _Suzdal_'s ramp. But he could not forget Voss's audacity. That weasel had a sharp tongue! Bold too, not everyone would dare to play a joke at the expense of a USF admiral! Fortunately, Voss had given his advice quietly, and the officers had not heard anything.

Or had they?

Timokhin imagined how the rumors of the reporter's joke would spread to every corner, from the Lunar Base to the Asteroid Belt, and clenched his jaw even tighter. His mood was completely ruined.


	11. Chapter 10

_This is a fan translation of _Invasion_ (Вторжение) by Mikhail Akhmanov, currently only available in Russian and, because of the author's passing in 2019, unlikely to ever be published in English. This is the first book in a six-book series called _Arrivals from the Dark_ (Пришедшие из мрака), which also has a six-book spin-off series called _Trevelyan's Mission_ (Миссия Тревельяна)._

_I claim no rights to the contents herein._

* * *

**Chapter 10**

The vicinity of the Martian orbit

Litvin spent four hours in the marine arsenal. It stored weapons for ground operations and battles in space, vacuum and combat suits, rocket packs and meal rations, portable energy sources and a ton of other things, from cutting filaments to the most powerful weapons, the PT-36 plasma throwers. But the racks with emitters and needlers, lasers and other gear looked like a sieve, and there was no way to put together something truly deadly using the surviving parts. Finally, cursing, Litvin selected and attached a disk-like button to his wrist, so small that the swarms had spared it. Inside the disk, wound in a tight spiral, was a monomolecular whip, a fearsome weapon, if one knew how to use it, but only useful in close combat, no farther than a meter away.

Then he stepped up to the suits. The vacuum ones turned out to be hopeless, but the combat suits, despite no longer being vacuum-capable, would do just fine; their plastic exoskeleton was not as vulnerable as the beam weapons and the needlers. Even better, they could be taken apart and put back together with almost no tools, replacing the damaged hinge joints, which is what Litvin started to do with a maniacal tenacity. A tricky puzzle! But, step-by-step, he managed to put together a single working suit from sixteen damaged ones, although he couldn't vouch for the left shin skeletal bar and the left knee.

The tedious task did not leave him much time for reflections, and that was good. In point of fact, Litvin had already crossed himself off the list of the fleet personnel and the list of the living in general; he was no longer a person with self-worth, but merely a keeper of unique information necessary for humanity. Everything that he had found out and would still find out needed to be preserved and handed off, like a baton in a long-distance relay race, and only after that could he depart this world. He sat in the small arsenal compartment, went through the dully rustling suits, unscrewed and screwed them back, and slowly, the memories of Smolensk, Earth, and the other worlds he'd visited, disappeared, melting away along with the faces of friends and loved ones, as if something distant and completely unimportant at the moment. Obviously, that was not the case, but he should not be reminiscing; the memories brought pain and distracted from work.

He had to look for intact batteries for the suit in beam rifles, rocket packs, and the rest of the gear. He managed to find six; each lasted eight hours in combat mode or two days in standard operating mode. Litvin plugged them into the slots on the belt, attached the ration and air containers at the hips, looked over the suit, counted the holes on the shoulder plates and sleeves and decided that it would do. Now to get more information and rescue McNeil…

Suddenly, fatigue fell upon him, the cabinets and racks of the arsenal with the useless weaponry swam before his eyes, and even the bright globe of light hanging on the ceiling seemed to dim. Litvin heaved himself to his feet, grabbed the suit, and headed towards his cabin. He pulled out his bunk, lay down, looked to the right, where Corcoran's bunk was, sighed, and turned towards the wall. The nervous tension did not release him, he didn't want to eat, drink, only sleep. But sleep wouldn't come.

"Ship!"

_I listen._

His lips barely moved, but he remembered that he didn't have to speak at all. But it was difficult to think as well.

_Are they looking for me?_

_Not yet. A t'ho interpreter will come to the compartment in about an hour._

_Who will? Yo?_

_No. It is time for her tuahha._

He sent a wordless question.

_Tuahha is a period of increased emotional activity related to the release of sexual hormones,_ the Ship explained. _A lifecycle element that comes around every thirty to forty days. Originally, during these periods, the Bino Faata entered into physical contact for the purpose of reproduction._

_Originally?.._

_During the time of the First and Second Phases and both Eclipses._

He remembered Yo's words, "The scent... The scent means that I am close to my tuahha period." It sounded like a release of some pheromones…

Litvin closed his eyes. It was easier to communicate this way.

_How do they reproduce now?_

_Artificial insemination. Physical contact is seen as barbaric. There is a species of females of limited sentience who produce offspring under strict genetic control._

_The ksa,_ Litvin asked, remembering the enormous hall with many sleeping women.

_The ksa,_ came a thought of confirmation.

"Too bad for our alien sisters, and the brothers too. They've lost so much…" Litvin muttered. "We should send them Rodriquez…" Then he remembered that Rodriguez was dead and fell silent. Then he asked mentally, no longer speaking, _What are these Phases and Eclipses? Something related to the stages of progress and regress?_

_Yes. The First Phase, seventy centuries of ancient written history, ended in a global disaster, when planetary resources were depleted. Over the three centuries of the Eclipse, the number of sentients fell. Then, during the Second Phase, it was artificially maintained at a low level, although the resource problem was resolved by the invention of gravity propulsion and the ability to import raw materials from other planets. But a mistake was made; the gene pool was too small, which again led to an Eclipse. Very quickly, in about half a millennium by human measurements. Too few leaders and creative people were being born. Progress had stopped._

Litvin sat up, pulled out a thermos from a ratio pack, made a few gulps. Then lay down again.

_Continue._

_Several centuries later, the crews of the first interstellar ships returned. The ships were very large but primitive; they moved in physical space and were subject to the temporal paradox. You call it–_

–_Special relativity. The flow of time slows down at speeds approaching the speed of light._

_Yes. Those who had returned brought new genetic material and information about star systems suitable for colonization. But the beings on the homeworld were no longer capable of that. The returnees, using their technological superiority, began forced selection and derived the first breeds of t'ho. Soon after that, a prototype was found near one of the stars and a warp drive was constructed. This allowed–_

_Hold on,_ Litvin thought. _What prototype?_

There was a pause, as if the Ship was pondering the question. Then, _The prototype of the being with which you are communicating. A quasi-mind. A symbiote. A new factor that had laid the foundation for the Third Phase. This allowed the settlement of a large section of space in the neighboring arm of the galactic spiral._

Litvin shuddered; the galaxy appeared under his closed eyelids like a flare. None of the currently living humans had ever seen it like that; the stellar island was shown from above, from the side of the poles and the ancient globular clusters rising over the plane of the spiral. The arms were clearly visible: the Sagittarius Arm nearest to the center, then the Orion Arm with a golden dot representing Sol, and, separated from it by a four-thousand-parsec gap, the Perseus Arm. There were also stars flickering there, but not with the gold but a blinding-white light, and Litvin discerned three identical lights at the very edge of the Orion Arm. They seemed to be right next to Sol, but it was an illusion, caused by the gigantic scale of the galaxy. The distance between Sol and them appeared to be two-three hundred light years.

_The white is the Bino Faata sector,_ the Ship informed him. _Their expansion is rapid, and the territory under their control is steadily increasing. They are already in the middle arm. The three dots on its edge are the New Worlds, settled recently, only a hundred years ago. The Faata fear..._

The soundless voice fell silent, and Litvin suddenly felt the certainty that the Ship was searching for the right words. Words that he would understand. He did not rush the enormous creature; he simply lay with his eyes closed and admired the awesome beauty of the universe.

_They fear an Eclipse. Such Eclipse that would prevent their race from recovering their potential. Not their numbers, not their intellect, not their technology… They are afraid to disappear in the darkness like the Daskins, and this fear takes them farther and farther. They believe that intensive expansion reduces the likelihood of any disasters. Especially now that they have encountered the others._

_Us?_ Litvin asked. The fatigue was winning out, and he was slowly sinking into slumber.

_No. You are still too weak. You do not yet preset a threat. Unlike the Kytes, the Llyano, the Silmarri, the Shada._

The galactic spiral suddenly flared with bright colors. Everywhere but the core region lit up with multicolored spots that looked like squids or strange-looking jellyfish with brightly-colored heads; their colors slowly faded and thinned to cut-up edges and tentacles, spread out in a seemingly chaotic disorder. Scarlet, crimson, yellow, violet stars shone at the backdrop of the velvet darkness separating them and hiding other stars, barely-visible sparks in a dark ocean. Then the galactic disk shook, started to turn, demonstrating the side and the lower part, also filled with jellyfish-like spots, glittering like bunches of rubies, topazes, amethysts, emeralds in a fairy tale cave. They were everywhere: pierced or skirted dark nebulae, grabbed spherical star associations, reached out to the Magellanic Clouds, spreading their thin tentacles for hundreds upon hundreds of light years.

_Areas of influence of various races,_ the Ship explained. _This is a Daskin-era map, it's millions of years old, and many civilizations have since been extinguished. But there does not exist more comprehensible data on the scale of the galaxy._

"There are so many… so many…" Litvin whispered, spellbound. "A living galaxy… and we knew nothing, nothing… I have to… I have to tell…"

Sleep overcame him, and he could no longer tell reality apart from fantastic visions. He thought he was talking or arguing with someone, and this unknown person was trying to warn him that the world was enormous and dangerous, that the denizens of the stars were not very fond of humans and that not all of them would consider the puny humans, who fluttered around Sol, to be fully sentient. That was the tragic dilemma that Litvin understood perfectly, but only in the dream. On the one hand, the galaxy, full of life, populated by hundreds of races, capable of squishing Earth with a single strike; and, as an alternative to this, hosts of planets near a myriad of stars who did not bear anything living, a dead emptiness, the eternal loneliness of the mind… Which of these options was more preferable? A world of intelligent monsters or a universe with no one but humans?

"I think I would still pick the monsters," Litvin said in his sleep. "They're still intelligent, maybe we can make a deal… And if there's no one in the galaxy to chat with, that's just rotten. Boredom, sadness!" His unseen opponent forced a smile, as fleshless as the Cheshire Cat's. "The choice has been made. Well, let's see what awaits you!"

A familiar image opened up in front of him: rows of transparent cells full of blue liquid, an anatomical theater of organs and vivisected bodies, arms and legs, headless torsos, bones without flesh, eyes suspended on thin nerve threads… It was all much more horrible in the dream, as each cell was labeled with the name of the person who the contents belonged to; Captain Cassidy's left foot, Engineer Bondarenko's heart, Ensign Szabó's eye, Second Navigator Ilsa Trier's thin feminine fingers. Then her head: bloodless lips, hairless scalp, empty eye sockets, skin reflecting with a bluish hue in the preservative solution.

"Your choice!" his unseen companion said. "You still want to deal with them, do you? Then look at this!"

McNeil. She was hanging in that enormous cavity where the ksa, the alien females, slept, and, at first glance, it seemed as if Abby was in the same tranquil oblivion as her neighbors. Litvin, though, understood that something terrible had happened to her, something that was, perhaps, worse than death. He studied her face, surveying her slender thin figure, but did not notice any changes. Then again, both of them were asleep, and Litvin's dream could turn out to be a deception: it wasn't Abby McNeil in front of him, only a mirage, a memory of her.

Suddenly, slipping through the sleepy stupor, he was gripped by a feeling of danger. He turned over, then opened his eyes and looked at the timer glowing on his wrist. 0716... morning aboard the _Lark_... He'd slept for over three hours and, despite the nightmares, felt himself rested.

But something was wrong. Maybe this feeling was from the dreams? From the last dream where he'd seen Abby?

He felt for the kaff clinging to his temple, then reached for the combat suit, groped in the meal container for tonic pills, swallowed two of them, sat for a while, relaxing and staring at the ball of light under the ceiling. The memory of the nightmarish dreams had left him, but the vision of the living galaxy remained. There were so many space-capable races out there! There were so many wonderful things to see! And there were so many dangers and benefits it all boded for humanity... Truly, one era had ended and another one was beginning!

He tried to focus on this thought, but the sense of worry would not leave him.

"Ship! Did you wake me?"

_Yes._

"Did something happen?"

_Olks are moving to this cavity. A p'hot is with them._

Litvin jerked to his feet and started to put his suit on.

"You told them where to look for me? You rusty filth?"

_No. This information is restricted. The command is being executed, and no contradicting commands have come._

"How did they find me then?"

_By your thermal emissions. A Sheaf member requested a thermal chart and looked at it._

Buckling his belt, Litvin crouched, then moved his arms around, clenched and unclenched his fingers. Nothing seemed to squeak or pop in the joints.

"What is a Sheaf? And what's a p'hot?"

_The Sheaf are the symbiotes running the expedition. A p'hot is an animal._ Pausing, the Ship explained. _A killer beast._

"Big beastie?" Litvin wondered, attaching the tiny disk with a whip to the back of his glove. There was no answer, and he asked again. "Is the beast dangerous?"

_Yes. It is sent when killing is required._

"It looks like Iveh no longer needs my services," Litvin muttered and dashed for the nearest hole in the ship's hull. "How many trolls were sent here? I mean, how many olks?"

_Four are moving down the main artery, four on the auxiliary. The p'hot is with them._

A diagram flared, and Litvin figured out that the main artery was the hallway he'd used to get here. A second line exited to the other end of the hold; obviously, they were planning on taking him with a pincer movement from both sides. An elementary tactic, perfect for those of limited sentience.

Squeezing through the hole, he jumped down to the floor and rushed to the transport alcove. The feeling of the suit's plastic armor stretching across his back and chest was familiar, and the armor quietly rustled when he touched his belt or thigh with a glove. The light ball, sent by the Ship, flew behind Litvin, and his figure cast a long angular shadow: a stretched rectangle of the cuirass, supporting the wide shoulder pads, and, above them, his head, packed into a helmet. He was running quickly and silently, and the shadow danced and wriggled at his feet.

_Ship! Can olks see in the dark?_

_Poorly. The spectrum and visual acuity of Bino Faata is very similar to that of the humans._

_Then remove the light,_ Litvin ordered, aloud he said, "Goggles!"

Darkness blinded him for a moment, then an infrared visor plate lowered, and he made out his hands and body, illuminated by a scarlet glow. Nothing else; in this enclosed space, the walls, the air, and the ruins of the _Lark_ were heated to the same temperature and appeared as a uniform pink background. But he knew that he was standing next to the alcove opening and that the enemies would appear in a moment.

In the depth, behind the transparent membrane, a dim glow flickered, the outline of a transport pod appeared with four massive silhouettes inside. Litvin touched a control with his chin, switching the suit to combat mode, then he stretched his left hand to the side and clenched his fingers. Obeying the gesture, a strand shot out of the disk with a quiet rustle. He had to use the whip carefully, without touching his own limbs: it cut through bones and flesh as well as a laser beam, and even the suit would not protect him from it.

The first olk passed through the membrane, stopped and barked something hoarsely and abruptly: maybe "sas" or "as". A small box was in his hands; a weapon, Litvin realized. Swiftly jumping forward, he swung the whip, and the invisible strand passed between the troll's shoulder and neck, slicing through the body and armor down to the hip. The olk staggered and collapsed silently. Three others jumped out of the transport pod with a whistling hiss, "asss-eee!.. s asss-eee!..", and the light in it immediately went out.

They needed to be eliminated immediately; noise, scuffling, and yelling were coming from the far end of the hold, which meant that the second unit was already there. _The hold is a kilometer long,_ he thought, _a human could run the distance in three minutes, but an animal? At least twice as fast..._

The trolls raised their weapons, Litvin dropped to the floor, and the air above him hummed. The attackers did not know where the enemy was and were firing blindly, but he could see their large figures well. Strange, but they continued to scream, repeating the same word over and over, "asss" or "sas". Until now, Litvin had thought that the olks were silent; perhaps, they couldn't communicate audibly at all. Apparently that was not the case.

He stretched out his left hand, rolled on the floor, swiped at the legs of the guard nearest to him and, jumping to his feet, finished him off with a punch to the temple. The armored glove crushed the skull like a sledgehammer; its force in combat mode was no less than three hundred kilograms. Another troll's back was lurking in front of Litvin, and, remembering the vulnerable point, he punched again, at the nerve cluster covered by armor. Vertebrae cracked, the guard wheezed, started to settle down to the floor, and then the last opponent bore down on Litvin. He didn't have a weapon, either he'd dropped it or deliberately thrown it away, afraid to hit his friend, and did not use his fists, simply trying to crush his forearms and ribs. That's exactly what would've happened had Litvin not been wearing armor.

Shifting his finger, he removed the cutting strand, afraid to hit his own thigh or knee with a careless movement. The olk's pressure became monstrous; apparently, its enhancement bracelets were no less effective than his combat suit's exoskeleton. He pressed and pressed, pushing Litvin's elbows into his ribs, squeezing the chest, and his cheeked face loomed right in front of the visor's plate. He could probably break the valuable device with a headbutt, if he understood its purpose and saw that the enemy was wearing a helmet. But there was no need to risk this outcome, as there was no need to stretch out the fight. Without trying to break the hold, Litvin turned abruptly, and the shoulder pad's sharp edge sliced through the olk's throat.

They fell as they stood; the dead guard, not releasing his grip, and Litvin, covered in the alien's blood. The olks was lying on top; thanks to the combat suit's resistance, the body seemed light, despite weighing, probably, over a hundred kilograms in 0.8 _g_. Pushing against the cuirass, slippery from the blood, Litvin started to raise the corpse, when something fell on top of both the living and the dead; it was lithe, fast, and heavy. Claws closed on Litvin's leg, crumpling the knee plate, a terrible maw, crimson-red in the visor's plate, was hanging over him, the long dragon-like neck bend down, teeth clanged... However, the dead olk protected him for a fraction of a second, long enough to clench the first and throw out the strand. He couldn't swing properly, but the monomolecular whip did not require a lot of effort. The string ripped the beast's skin under its jaw but, apparently, did not reach its throat; the p'hot recoiled with a piercing screech, jumped to the side and started rolling around on the floor.

Litvin stood up, took a second to look at the creature that kept alternating between coiling into a ball and swiping the air with a sharp claw, and decided that the monster's movements were too swift and it was too dangerous to approach. He raised the corpse, threw it at the p'hot, and, when it clutched at the olk, moved closer and removed the predator's head. The p'hot's neck was long, the jaws were reminiscent of an alligator, but the fur and the bright glow in the visor proved that it was a warm-blooded animal.

Stepping back to the cooling body of the first slain enemy, Litvin felt around and bumped into his weapon. The box did not radiate heat, so he could not see it, only feeling the handle and the trigger button on one side and a circular opening a centimeter in diameter on the other. There was also a small lever, pulled all the way; his fingers touched the smooth head and the slit through which it, likely, moved.

_Ship! What is this?_

_A paralyzer. Blocks signals from the brain neurons to the central nervous system. Can stun or kill._

_At what distance?_

_Up to forty or fifty meters._

_Lasers are more effective._

_Naturally. But a paralyzer is safer. Nothing can be damaged except for symbiotes._

_Safer for you?_ Litvin asked and, having waited for confirmation, inquired. _Can I use it?_

_No. It's a personal weapon._

_Calibrated to its owner?_

_Yes._

_Fine, screw it! I'll manage._ Litvin placed the box on top of the dead man's chest and moved ahead slowly. Not completely silently; the bent edge of the plate on the knee kept rubbing against the hinge and was creaking slightly.

Four cold dots, the still-living guards, quivered in the visor, slowly approaching. He spent several seconds pondering if he should get into the transport pod and get out of the hold, then decided that every job needed to be finished. In the meantime, the dots had grown into tiny figures and split up; two were walking towards him, two had disappeared completely, probably hidden by the _Lark_'s hull.

Sound carried far in the enormous hold: the screech of the dying p'hot, the noise of the fight, the screams of the olks... What could these four think? That the escapee had been ripped apart by the beast? That he'd been finished off by the paralyzers of their comrades-in-arms? That he was lying near the transport pod with a broken spine? Or did they not think at all, did not change plans, and did not try to align them to the situation? Lost in conjecture, Litvin asked, _Do they know about the deaths of the first group?_

_Unlikely. Their psychic communication abilities are limited._

_What about aloud? They must've heard the sound of the fight?_

_They do not think, they act. Follow orders._

_So that's how it is! Then they're bad soldiers. A soldier must think._

_They are not soldiers. Guards, security, punishers... Not very smart but perceptive and vigilant._

It would be worthwhile to ask more about it, but a new idea dawned on Litvin.

_This order... Can you cancel it? Like with the olks you sent to rest?_

_Impossible. A different situation. They have a goal, and only the Pillar of Order can change it._

Didn't work... Too bad! Stretching out his hand with the half-a-meter long strand of the whip, Litvin headed for the scarlet silhouettes. The dead hulk of the _Lark_ was to his left, melting into the pink haze but felt as clearly as if he could see it. The subconscious instinct of pilot, who was used to remembering direction and distance, told him that the nearest hole in the hull was ten to twelve paces away, maybe fifteen. The armor plates were separated under the opening, and, recalling that, Litvin turned towards the ship. His knee plate squeaked rhythmically.

His movements sped up when a sharp cry came from the darkness. Groping for a slit between the plates, he dove into it and flattened himself against the cool smooth metal. Another shout, and, a moment later, he heard the already familiar hum: either the buzz of the disturbed air or an activated paralyzer. _Watchful devils! And perceptive!_ Litvin thought, remembering the Ship's warning.

The two rounding the cruiser from the other side re-appeared on the visor's plate. The olks' voices echoed in the hold, sharp and hoarse; navigating by the sound, they gathered together, then stretched out in a column and headed for the transport alcove. The air once again shivered from the hum. It was a lot stronger now; it looked like all four paralyzers were working. The olks were moving slowly, flooding the space in front of them with deadly discharges.

Litvin, frozen in his slit, let them close to ten meters, then leapt in combat mode. His muscles tensed, and the suit, sensing the effort, obediently threw his body up and forward. A jump, then another... He landed behind the olk in the middle of the formation, swiped across his back with the strand, and rushed back, to the safety of the _Lark_'s hull. He managed to leave the dangerous area, although the enemies' reaction was swift; the three guards, turned, without lowering their weapons, and the hum of the paralyzers instantly stopped. Then there were other sounds: a convulsive rasping, quickly turning into the thud of falling bodies.

After waiting for a short while, Litvin came closer to the bodies and confirmed that they were all dead. The one killed by him had bled out, whereas the others, as expected, asphyxiated when their respiratory reflex had vanished. Their faces in the visor were terrible: blue and crimson, with eyes coming out of their orbits, with open mouths and bitten tongues sticking out.

"Well, guys," Litvin said, straightening out, "we fought on equal terms. Everything was fair: you had your armor, I had mine." He touched his suit's shoulder pad. "So no hard feelings. I've got a lot to do, and I wasn't planning on relaxing here with my tongue sticking out."

Returning to the cruiser, he switched off the suit's combat mode, removed the gloves, put his palms on an armor plate and froze for a few minutes, saying goodbye. Then he headed for the alcove and the transport pod. He got inside, sat on the floor, and the light came on.

"Ship!"

_I listen._

"The olks were screaming something. What was it?"

_They tried to call the guards from the first group. Then–_

"No," Litvin interrupted, "that was later. At the moment they left the pod, I heard a word... sas... asss..."

_S'assi. Light. The command to turn on the light was given mentally but not executed. Then they repeated it vocally._

"And you once again did not execute it. Did my order have higher priority?"

_In this case, yes._

Litvin's eyebrows drew together, his forehead wrinkled. Without a doubt, he had some power over this creature, the quasi-sentient monster, but what sort of power? Where had it come from? And what were its limits? Now it seemed to him that it was more important to find them out than fight with the olks. Perhaps even more important than obtaining information on the galactic races who were out there among the stars, far from Earth and Sol. Even more important than rescuing McNeil, which, truth be told, was a complicated and dubious task. In essence, he'd started a war with an unknown and terrible force, with an enemy superior in every way and entrenched in fortified positions. In this campaign, he could only count on his own stubbornness, agility, and a not-fully-functional combat suit. Also, on an ally whose loyalty was highly questionable.

"Ship! Will you execute any command I give you?"

_Any reasonable command,_ the disembodied voice rustled.

"Is your self-destruction one of them? Or course alteration?"

_No._

Concise, clear, peremptory. This thing did not wish to die, no matter what explained this decision: an externally-inputted program or a natural instinct. The flight path was also outside of Litvin's scope, as was, likely, the extermination of the crew. Or rather, he could exterminate anyone he wished but only with his own two hands.

Therein lay the mystery. He decided that the Ship was either playing along with both sides or holding them back, following some strange rules that had nothing to do with logic; at least, the kind of logic used by humans.

Could he bring it into submission? How? Maybe through fear? Fear was the universal method for those who did not wish to die…

"Tell me, will the Bino Faata attack Earth?"

_That is a possibility._

"But is it sensible? You and your symbiotes against an entire planet?"

_Technological superiority is on their side._

"But resources are on ours. A world with an enormous population, a ton of all kinds of weapons, armies, military bases, spaceships… Dozens of combat cruisers more powerful than the _Lark_." Litvin made himself more comfortable, sitting and leaning back against the chamber wall. "You can't beat us, pal, and, therefore, everything will end with you being vaporized. Both you and your symbiotes. Maybe not the first time, and not the second, but we're a stubborn people. There are too many of us to kill."

_That would be undesirable. The last resort. It is sufficient to destroy all those who are armed. That is what the symbiotes think._

"Destroy all? How exactly? Are you going to chase down every frigate from Mercury to the Asteroid Belt?"

_No. There are auxiliary modules for that._

Litvin chuckled.

"Really? I'd love to take a look!"

A minute later, his smile was gone.

Those angular spikes sticking out of the hull... On closer examination, they looked like ancient gasoline canisters, five times the size of a heavy cruiser, with a massive ring on the cut-off corner, the maw of an annihilator. Battle modules, the Ship explained. They lacked the elegance and the streamlined shape of human cruisers, frigates, and corvettes, but they were capable of flying through both space and planetary atmosphere. They went on, row by row, infinite like mountains on the coast of a cosmic ocean and, examining them, Litvin realized, his heart growing cold, the purpose of the Ship. It wasn't a vessel for peaceful expeditions, but an outpost of aggression… A hyperlight drive to move the fleet, a strategic center to coordinate its actions… The fleet was huge: not dozens, hundreds of combat units more powerful than a cruiser. A juggernaut!  
But that was not all: the tunnels located next to the converter shaft were hangars for scout modules, and the count here was not in the hundreds but in the thousands. Dark boxes of the hulls, packed in dense circles, floated past Litvin, until he felt dizzy. _What's inside?..._ he thought, and a dark space opened up, light came on, a statue wrapped in a blanket appeared. _A sleeping pilot?_ Yes, the Ship confirmed; a t'ho, connected via a bio-interface to the weapon and the navigation unit. A soldier, preserved in a tin can, awaiting the order that would rip it out of oblivion and throw it into battle…

Litvin lifted the helmet's visor and wiped his forehead. Damn! The attempt to scare the Ship had failed! Rather, he was the one who was scared… In order to fight an armada like that, three fleets wouldn't be enough, maybe thirty-three. But even then there was no guarantee of victory; lasers, swarms, plasma throwers seemed like peashooters compared to annihilators.

He tried to calm down. After all, the battle where the aliens and humans would meet was still in the future, but his own war was here and now. It wouldn't do to sit around in this hold, next to the _Lark_'s ruins and the cooling bodies of the olks.

"Ship! You said that they tracked me by my thermal emissions. Block this information."

There was a pause, then, _The block contradicts an earlier order given by the Keeper of Communications._

A cat-and-mouse game, Litvin realized. Then he said, "Then let's consider other options. Could they find me if I was moving fast? Or if I got lost in a crowd?"

_You would be virtually impossible to find._

That's what he thought; they couldn't find him in a crowded place. And there were very convenient crowded places here! Hundreds, thousands of bodies, a strong infrared background, and not one open pair of eyes… The t'hami halls he'd visited with Yegg and Yo. Where McNeil still was…

Calling up the transport diagram, he looked closer and pointed with his finger.

"Here! To the dormitories!"

These compartments were densely placed, in the upper-right sector of the ship. Actually, Litvin had only seen the cavity with the ksa females, but Yo had explained that such storage spaces continue up and down in tiers and that the majority of the crew was located there. The t'hami trance was caused by a gas, the same gas with the smell of leaves that Litvin had already tasted in his cell. It seemed that its components had the same effect on humans as on the Faata, which was a sure sign of the biochemical and morphological similarity of the races. There were, of course, differences: the Bino Faata did not sleep during the active periods of their lives.

The transport diagram winked out, the pod quivered, starting to move, and, a minute later, Litvin found himself near the transparent wall behind which two dozen bodies hung motionless. Women, men… There weren't many of them, even the compartment looked very different from the enormous cavity he had seen before. The tubes enlacing the sleepers stretched to the housing of some assembly; there was a hatch near it, a spacious chamber with the already-familiar hygienic appliances. A person floated right above the hatch, whose face Litvin would have called authoritative and cruel, if he could understand Faata facial expressions. Then again, this was the first time he saw a naked alien male, and his body seemed more interesting than his face. Confirming that all the curious details were in the right places, he chuckled and asked, "Who is this guy?"

_Kaya, the Guardian of the Heavens, the second in the Sheaf. By human terminology, a general._

"Yeah, I wondered why his face was so gloomy. The mug alone ranks him no lower than an admiral," Litvin said and looked around. "Where am I?"

_This is a level for the fully sentient. T'ho levels are located below._

"I need to go where the human woman is."

_At the end of the hallway is a gravity shaft. You need to descend two levels._

Following these directions, Litvin passed through a membrane into a vertical well. He became familiar with the grav-shafts during his guided tour with Yegg and Yo; these were zero-gravity areas placed in pairs and piercing the Ship from the top to the bottom tiers. The _Lark_ had something similar, but these wells were larger, with smooth walls without braces or anything else sticking out. But there was a wind; streams of air slowly and smoothly rushed up and down in neighboring shafts.

He was slowly descending, staring into the abyss below him. The familiar feeling of floating in weightlessness gripped Litvin, and only one thing seemed unusual: he was not in a Vulture's cocoon, not in space, not outside the cruiser's hull, and not in its narrow compartments; he was floating like a feather in a kilometer-long chasm flooded with light. The Ship's scale was impressive. It would be a shame if something unfortunate happened to it… And it would most definitely happen, there was no other way! He imagined the armada of battle modules, the pilots sleeping in them, the maws of annihilators, and bared his teeth predatorily.

_Emotions,_ a voice in his head echoed, _emotions… Very strong._

"That's what I got," Litvin muttered and exited the well. He felt safe: to the left was a spacious hall with thousands of sleeping men and women, to the right was an equally enormous compartment with low tables. A dormitory and a feeder… A silent crowd in which he could get lost… Every twenty paces he saw hatches and sanitation units, containers with clothing and assemblies with clusters of tubes. Ahead, the hallway expanded into an oval, like a meeting place.

_To the intersection,_ the Ship advised. _To the left is the ksa cavity._

Litvin started walking along the transparent wall, but then froze, glancing at the sleepers. They were different: troll guards with hairless scalps and bulging muscles, men and women of a more elegant shape, reminiscent of elves and fairies, some sort of tall bony beings of indeterminate sex, and others, just as thin, but tiny like underfed children. One of the women looked familiar. Delicate features, vibrant full lips, a mane of dark hair floating around her face like a halo…

_Yo?_ he asked wordlessly.

_Yo,_ came the reply.

_Great, Yo! An ally?.._ he thought. Litvin automatically reached for his temple, touched the kaff, and frowned. If Yo had not slipped him this little device, he would still be sitting in the damp dungeon… Well, maybe not damp, but still a dungeon… And now he was a free man! Walking wherever he pleased, slitting olk throats, and conversing with a quasi-mind.

Yo had helped… But why? An interesting question! Maybe he'd charmed her? Or had some characteristic of Earth piqued her curiosity? Maybe she'd watched some erotic film and become filled with affection for human males?

Chuckling, Litvin shook his head. Doubtful! What was more likely was that not everyone here was living it up and was pleased with life. Why would they be? People were being bred like cattle, and they weren't even people but genetic monsters with limited sentience! A woman couldn't bear a child! A man couldn't lie down with a woman! It was yet another Eclipse, not the Third Phase! Plenty of grounds for discontent, which lead to resistance. In secret, of course.

_An ally then!_ Litvin decided and, on impulse, ordered, "Take her to the hatch and wake her. Let her wait for me."

_She is in her tuahha period,_ the Ship objected.

"If she wakes up, will it harm her?"

_No. But __—_

"Then carry out the order!"

He lingered for a little while, waiting as the woman's naked body floated among the web of tubes to the hatch. The beautiful Yo, Yo the Mystery! Who were you? Just a kind soul who'd decided to save a helpless prisoner? Or were you a member of a fifth column in the enemy camp? He would find that out soon…

Litvin walked towards the oval area, where the hallway intersected with an identical wide passage, and turned left. The place looked familiar. The cavity that opened up ahead contained only the ksa females: identical faces, small mouths, pointy chins… Somewhere among these sleeping ranks was Abby, but he knew that he could see her at any moment; all he had to do was give an order to the Ship.

Strange, why had they put her in this dormitory? The one where Yo was sleeping seemed no different to Litvin: the same large area, identical assemblies with a web of hoses and tubes, the same hatches and…

He didn't have time to finish that thought. Light blinked, and a familiar sense of alarm gripped Litvin; sounds of footsteps came from the far end of the hallway along with sharp, rapid speech. Had they tracked himdown? How? The Ship instantly reacted to this wordless question.

_Olks, and full sentients with them, the Pillar of Order's assistants. Sent to check the t'hami halls._

"Clever bastards!" Switching the suit to combat mode, Litvin darted back to the turn. It looked like he would be unable to get to McNeil this time… Naked bodies flashed past, muscular torsos of sleeping guards, thin dwarves with bloated heads, and those elegant, fragile ones who looked like elves. He ran, looking for the hatch where Yo was located and thought that, if they blocked off this hallway, he'd have to fight again.

_There is a transport alcove nearby,_ the Ship informed him, and, at the same moment, a guard appeared a hundred paces in front of Litvin. He was followed by a second, a third, a fourth… They came out of the alcove like a ghostly pack: a dozen warriors in armor and with paralyzers. There was an elf-like Faata in an azure leotard with them, also armed.

Litvin saw Yo. The woman was sitting on the floor, leaning against the transparent wall with her shoulder, her eyes closed and her head drooped. It seemed as if she was unconscious or remained on the verge of waking and sleeping; apparently, the sleeping gas was still active. Passing through the hatch's membrane, he picked up Yo, jumped out into the hallway and looked around. They noticed him. The guards who'd left the alcove blocked the passage and were coming closer, raising their weapons; behind him, from around the corner, came the second team.

"Open the hatches!" Litvin cried out to the Ship. "All the hatches in the t'hami halls!"

_An unreasonable command,_ the whisper replied. _Opening the hatches will release the gas into the hallways and…_

Not waiting for the Ship to finish, he sealed the suit, released the strand, and slashed against the wall. It gave way with surprising ease; after the fourth strike, a large square piece of it fell out, and the hallway was immediately shrouded in mist. Mixing with air, the gas lost transparency for several seconds, swirling in white cloudy flakes, then melted, like a fog in sunlight. But its effect was inevitable and swift: shouts came from behind him, followed by the sound of falling bodies, while the guards ahead of him didn't even have time to scream, falling to the floor in a pile. Making a few holes, just in case, Litvin increased the pressure of the gas mix. The suit did not have a tight seal, but he had not yet smelled the gas, and his head was clear. Still, he needed to hurry.

Holding Yo close and stepping over the unconscious olks, he headed for the transport alcove. He knew where he could hide; the place was quiet, secluded, and reliable. It was unlikely they'd find him there… At least until the fighting started.

Litvin entered the pod, the transport diagram flashed to life in midair, then the floor suddenly rocked under his feet. An instantaneous shiver pierced him, as if a gust of icy wind slipped through the suit and his jumpsuit; it was also possible that the cold did not come from outside but started within him, forcing him to feel alarm again.

"Did something happen?"

_The screening field was lowered,_ the Ship informed him.

"Why?"

_A human fleet is approaching. It is time to start the negotiations._

"Me too, I think," Litvin said, looking at Yo.


	12. Chapter 11

_This is a fan translation of _Invasion_ (Вторжение) by Mikhail Akhmanov, currently only available in Russian and, because of the author's passing in 2019, unlikely to ever be published in English. This is the first book in a six-book series called _Arrivals from the Dark_ (Пришедшие из мрака), which also has a six-book spin-off series called _Trevelyan's Mission_ (Миссия Тревельяна)._

_I claim no rights to the contents herein._

* * *

**Chapter 11**

On Earth and other places

"This is JBC, and, for the next hour, I, Patrick McCaffrey, will be with you. With you, fellow citizens! Now, when I am saying this, I mean not only the four hundred and twenty millions living in the United States, but all the inhabitants of Earth, Mars, Venus, and the Asteroid Belt. For all us are now compatriots, and our address is not Berlin or New York, not Rostov or Qingdao, not New Delhi or Cairo, and not even Earth, but the Solar System. And we can hope that we shall soon be citizens of the galaxy, equal among equals, traveling through the stars of our celestial island and stretching out the hand of friendship to all its races. The first of them is already here…"

A grand melody is heard, the commentator's face is replaced by computer-generated images: Earth's sphere, the night sky, one of the stars fell from the firmament, grew, turned into a crystal-and-silver rocket, opened its hatch, and a handsome dark-haired man and a beautiful blonde woman floated out of it. Aery clothing, seductive body outlines, the glitter of gems in their diadems… At the sight of Earth, the aliens' eyes went wide in delight, and spreading their hands in embrace, they hurried down, towards the cheering throngs.

Patrick McCaffrey's face reappears on the screen.

"I am happy to report that, today at 7:33 GMT the United Space Forces frigate _Suzdal_ received signals from an extraterrestrial ship and then established visual contact with it. This happened in the vicinity of the orbit of Mars, about 0.5 AU from Earth in the direction of the Sagittarius constellation. We still have too little information, but it is already known that the alien ship is very large and they are capable of communicating in one of Earth's languages, which they have deciphered based on our TV and radio transmissions. The admiral frigate _Suzdal_, escorted by the cruisers _Pamir_, _Lancaster_, _Sakhalin_ and their squadrons is undertaking maneuvers in the previously-mentioned sector of space. At this time, we do not know if this is somehow connected to the aliens, if the meeting was accidental or planned, and, if the latter is true, what role was played by the widespread information about the observations of the astronomer Liu Chang. However, in certain circles, there are rumors that the President of the EAU initiated…"

"THEY ARE ALREADY HERE!" read the headline of the _New York Herald_, typed in enormous letters. The other newspapers were keeping pace: "Arrival from the Heavens: Who Are They, Gods or Demons?", "A Giant Starship in Martian Orbit", "The End of Civilization or the Beginning of a New Era?", "Ships of the Third Fleet Met Aliens", "Where Did They Come From?", "Why Is the USF Silent?", "Four Light Minutes to Mystery". And so on, and so forth… The _London Express_ had an article of an astrologist who claims to have calculated the date of the alien invasion down to the hour ten years ago; the _Monitor_ had "Time of Reckoning?..", a meaningful question of the philosopher Berthier; the _Moscow Diocese Bulletin_ printed an interview with the Patriarch, while the _Vatican Journal_ did the same with the Pope. Both of the supreme hierarchs insisted that angels would descend to Earth, and the thousand-year disputes between the faiths would be resolved. However, Lymon Pirks, the apostle of the Cosmic Church, disagreed with them; he believed that the aliens would rip off everyone's heads, except for his parishioners. The Chinese press glorified the exploits of the pioneer Liu Chang, but confusion slipped between the lines: Liu had disappeared, vanished into thin air, and there was no one to give awards to. The Muslim media was torn, while the theologians were searching the Quran for the reasoning behind the Arrival, the radical elements—the Crimson Jihad, the Assassins, and the others—were already claiming that the aliens were the hand of Allah's vengeance, raised over the infidels. The Russian publications voiced a multitude of various hypotheses about the appearance, technology, and social structure of the aliens, but as far as the role of the President in all this, they were united: Visionary, Father of the People! Maybe even Savior of Earth… The _CosmoSpiegel_ heated the calamity, cut dividends, and exulted: we gave the first warning! A special edition had this bit of information: John A. Bradford, the head of the orbital Kepler Observatory, was tendering his resignation.

Gorchakov pushed away the pile of newspaper and magazines, wiped his glasses, and stared at the film screen where headlines on all Earth languages appeared, replacing one another at five-second intervals, then turned off the computer. For the most part, it was rubbish and nonsense, empty speculation… His assistants would extract any useful bits of data, but he bet that there wouldn't be a lot of particularly valuable information. Probably a lot less than in Timokhin's report, although even this document did not contain many details: I came, I saw, I was surprised… That must've been some surprise!

Chuckling, Gorchakov lit a cigarette and mused that his fellow serviceman in the Amur division shouldn't complain; sure, he'd twisted his arm, but now Admiral Timokhin was going to be a part of history. Like Gagarin, Armstrong, and Aldrin! Of course, he wasn't alone out there; he had a dozen ships, two thousand crewmembers, but Timokhin was the most important one. Who knew the name of the captain of the _Lancaster_ or, say, the _Pamir_? No one! But Timokhin was somebody now! All the textbooks would now say: on May 29, 2088, a flotilla under the command of Admiral Timokhin encountered the ship of… we still didn't know what they called themselves, so let's say Race Y for now. That was glory, and honor, and the rest would depend on how well he followed his instructions.

The directives, received at the Security Council session and agreed upon by the UN Secretary-General and the leaders of the great powers, were simple: declare an embargo on all space flights for private corporations, as well as African and Asian nations, then gather information, not letting the aliens get close to Earth or any colony, including Mercury and Venus. According to Timokhin's report, their ship was the size of an asteroid, and God only knew what was inside it… So, let it hang there in space with our friendly wishes. As far as Earth, it would be best for them to get there on the _Pamir_. A polite guest did not argue with his host…

Besides that, at the suggestion of Lord Michael, they decided to put the First and Second fleets on alert, as well as the ground forces of the Shareholders, but to maintain their deployment areas. Chavez and Haley did not object; their ships, remaining on Luna and Mars, could strike from two directions, which gave them a tactical advantage. Joseph Haley had already departed for Mars, as his fleet would be in charge of such an operation; in any case, the First Fleet could not send all of its squadrons from the Lunar Base, as that would lead to the destabilization of the situation on Earth.

Gorchakov blew out a smoke ring, examined the desk, and, with it, the rest of his cozy office. The latest issue of the _Spiegel_ caught his eye, the one informing about Bradford's resignation. The cover had a cartoon: a big-headed alien with horns and a maw open in a predatory manner was aiming to swallow the tiny ball that was Earth. There was a writing above: "ARMAGEDDON IS NIGH!" It seemed that the _Spiegel_ did not favor the aliens; there were three rows of teeth in the maw.

Well, that wasn't yet known, Gorchakov decided; maybe they really did have horns and lots of teeth but the soul of an angel. They would find out soon, when Timokhin's latest report arrived… His eyes shifted to the _Moscow Fires_: the President's photo near the walls of the Kremlin and an article on the front page with the short title "Visionary". Putting away the cigarette, he shook his head in admiration. Now this was a definite truth! Maybe he wasn't really a visionary, but one couldn't fault the man's intuition! Or his sense of the moment! Either he'd thought of it himself, or smart people like Asadin had suggested it, but someone had to listen to eggheads and agree with their advice… Either way, the President would get to keep his chair. Either he would win the re-election, or his time in office would be extended…

Boris Sergeyevich Gorchakov, prominent politician and member of the Security Council, was pondering this and many other things, while sitting in his office on the twenty-first floor of the UN headquarters. His thoughts were bustling, though, and he would not admit even to himself that he was terrified. The terror was hidden deep, lurking behind the thoughts of the fall Presidential elections, of the awards awaiting Timokhin (which he owed to him, Gorchakov), of the media, where the topic of the aliens, angels or demons was being spun and squeezed to the last eular. For a moment, he even remembered the astronomer Liu, Gunther Voss, and Umkhonto Tlume, the initiators of the turmoil; he remembered and felt surprise: the quiet, neat Tlume had not been present at the last two or three sessions.

But all that was merely an unsteady wall concealing his fear. From time to time, the wall cracked, and then Gorchakov shuddered, realizing the reality of what had happened.

THEY WERE ALREADY HERE! The impossible had happened… Maybe Armageddon truly was nigh?

The science ship _Copernicus _was landing on the astrodrome of the Martian _Mariner_ station. A beautiful picture: the violet sky, rusty-gray dunes, and, in the foreground, a blinding engine exhaust. But traffic controller Jozef Kalikh was already used to this sight and was looking at the tub arriving from Jupiter with complete indifference. Of course, Christina, his friend from the communications division, told him that the _Copernicus_ planetologists had lowered probes into the Great Red Spot and found something there: maybe a spatial singularity or a temporal wormhole. This could prove interesting, but only at another time. Jupiter was too far away, but there was news of the century right here, much closer, a mere eight million kilometers away.

The flames coming out of the nozzles went out, and the _Copernicus_, looking like a thermos flask, ponderously lowered herself onto the concrete slabs. Exactly where she'd been directed, between a Neo Polymetal ore carrier and an orbital shuttle. Hoses reached out to the ore carrier from fuel cisterns, but that landing pad and the cisterns themselves were far from the _Copernicus_, and the nozzle exhaust hadn't reached them. Just in case, Kalikh made sure that the refueling process was not interrupted, examined the panels with the green lights, nodded in contentment, and spoke into the microphone.

"Traffic control station _Mariner_ to the _Copernicus_. You landed within norm. I'm sending a transport."

"Thank you," one of the pilots replied. He sounded tired.

Kalikh waved to the duty officers.

"Pierre, Zbyszek! Send someone to them. Have them take the green car, it's bigger, and they have seventeen people aboard."

"Are we going to refuel them?" Pierre asked.

"Certainly, but only after the ore carrier. In about two hours."

Sighing, Kalikh surveyed the landing field with the three ships, the sky, the cisterns, the dunes, and the shimmering bubble of the habitation dome far away. The landscape was beautiful, but the place was miserable… No green plantings, like in Hellas, Isis, and Argir [areas of depression on Mars with an even, flat bottom, the so-called "undivided plains", suitable for settlement.], no real city under the domes, no clubs, no stadium, no theater, no new faces… A hundred people, but only a single fifteen-meter pool, a single café, and one bar in the hotel… But news reaches even here. Indeed it did, thank the galaxy and the communications division!

He flipped a switch on the panel and said pleadingly, "Christina, is that you? This is Jozef. Listen, my pani [a Slavic honorific], is there anything new about these aliens? Can you please tell us? Pierre and Zbykh are also interested…"

Pierre and Zbykh were not the only ones who were interested; aboard the heavy cruiser _Taiga_, Commander Chernov, the senior communications officer, was personally sitting in headphones near the receiver. He had been sitting there for two days, pausing only to relieve himself, although his ensigns and lieutenants changed out every six hours. Degtyar, the captain of the _Taiga_, trusted only Commander Chernov's unique hearing.

The cruiser was on her way to Eros [Eros, discovered in 1898, is one of the rare asteroids with a highly eccentric orbit: during aphelion, it retreats beyond the orbit of Mars, but approaches Earth as close as 20 million kilometers (about one every forty years). Its diameter is 20 kilometers; the asteroid has an elongated shape and revolves around its minor axis, which causes its albedo to change.]. This piece of rock, shaped like a cucumber, regularly passed near Earth, and, despite the fact that the distance of its extreme approaches was not too critical, future forecasts remained uncertain. That was why the decision had finally come to get rid of it: vaporize it, break it into pieces, or alter its orbit with directed explosions, throwing it far away from the inhabited planets. To study these possibilities, a team of geophysicists from the USF asteroid division had landed on Eros, along with mining machines, robotic drillers, shuttles, and life support systems. The cruiser's mission was to recover this team along with their valuable equipment.

Eros was currently near its aphelion, at the distance of three hundred twenty million kilometers from Earth, on the other side of the Sun. The repeaters on the Third Fleet bases in the Asteroid Belt transmitted only orders and service information, it was impossible to receive direct transmissions from Earth. Chernov, however, somehow managed to do just that and even put together communiqués from pieces of speeches, phrases, and hazy images. The news was incredible, one could say absolutely fantastic, if not for the confirmation on all channels, including the service channel. The crew listened to it four times a day, listened eagerly, with trepidation, and everyone, from the Captain to a gunner, from the cook team to the marines, imagined that they were only five minutes from the beginning of a new era. Well, maybe not five and not minutes, but definitely no more than a month.

There was no man or woman aboard the _Taiga_ who did not dream of finding themselves next to their lucky comrades-in-arms, with those who, under the command of Admiral Timokhin, would be the first to behold the wonderful, the incredible, the unprecedented.

Sydney Birk and Juan Arego, miners of Outpost 13044, were floating in zero-g and downing their fifth mug of beer in the Papa Pew tavern. Birk was an African-American from Boston, while Arego was from Málaga, and the blood in his veins was a mix of Spanish and Moorish. The mining outpost was owned by a cartel called Silver, Inc., but they weren't mining silver out here; they were after more valuable metals: rhenium, osmium, and iridium. Importing silver from such faraway places would hardly break-even, as, even on its best day, the 13044th was half-a-billion kilometers away from Earth. The name of the outpost came from the unnamed asteroid, known only by its number; a stellar rock that could be easily passed in any direction in about twenty minutes. Naturally, without making any sudden movements, avoiding ending up in the endless abyss for all eternity. As for the Papa Pew, its closest competition was on Ceres, in the town of Mining Rock, and on the Third Fleet base. This was dramatically reflected in the price of alcohol.

"Fred got his ass whooped," Arego stated in a Franco-Spanish-English dialect. "Got a hard-on for Moisés. Right in the shower."

"Screw Fred," Birk replied.

"He can do that without your advice," Arego noted, sipped his beer through a straw and grimaced. "This is piss! Now, the stuff we got in Andalusia–"

"Screw Andalusia!"

"Why not?" Arego shrugged. "What's left in that shitty Andalusia? Olives, palm trees, and tourists–"

"Screw the tourists!"

Each finished his fifth mug in silence and ordered a sixth.

"They cut the bonuses again," Arego said to maintain the conversation. "The master says–"

"Screw the master!" Birk roared.

"Now that, buddy, is something I completely agree with."

An hour passed. They were finishing their seventh mug.

Arego stared out the window, covered in transparent reinforced plastic. The window the size of a soccer ball led outside, and, besides darkness and emptiness, he could see half-a-dozen stars in it. Not very bright ones.

"Have you seen the transmission from Ceres? The news?" He latched on to his mug, emptying it. "A pair of queers made a baby in Milan. Cloned or something… Real tore Chelsea a new one… And some aliens showed up–"

"Screw the aliens," Sydney Birk said. Another beer, Juanito?"

Post 13 was immured in the rocky surface of the Tartarus Plateau up to its neck, or rather, to the top protective dome. On Venus, Tartarus was considered to be a rather decent region: more than three-and-a-half thousand kilometers away from the volcanic areas, the atmosphere (97% carbon dioxide) was relatively calm, the windspeed during storms was no more than 80 m/s, moderate precipitation (80% sulfuric acid, the rest: hydrochloric and hydrofluoric acids), the flat landscape was accessible for movement. A little hot, though (400 °C), but one shouldn't complain, as it was 500 in other places.

From a structural standpoint, Post 13 represented a cylinder made of the strongest composite twenty-two meters in diameter and seventy meters high, split into tiers. Above, under the dome, where one could find an airlock, a hangar, an extendable antenna, and a long-range communication device, the temperature was about 40 degrees, below, in the depth, it was no higher than thirty. There, next to the grills of the air conditioner, which produced cool air, labs, living quarters, a kitchen, and a lounge were hiding. In the lounge, Mike Sviridov and Demeskis were playing poker. Paul Durant, their third companion, was sleeping, but was virtually participating in the game, represented by the computer Full Ass.

"Shall we show our hands?" Mike offered. "Straight. Jack high."

Demeskis had three of a kind, while the computer had two pairs. Full Ass was losing outright.

Sviridov shuffled the deck and dealt a new hand: to himself, to Demeskis, and on top of the computer's scanner. "Replace this one," Full Ass buzzed melodically, lighting up one of the cards. Sviridov replaced it.

"Have you seen the data from the last drilling? When the drill broke?" Demeskis said. "Water! In the upper lithosphere layer, no less! Of course, it's only vapors and in trace amounts, but–"

"Exactly, trace!" Sviridov snorted dismissively.

"But the process is happening." Demeskis looked at his cards, deep in thought.

"Why wouldn't it?! Sviridov pulled up an issue of the _Planetary Review_ with the necessary article. "Look, even on Mercury…"

The game served as the background for the discussion that had been going on for seven months, since they relieved the previous USF science division team. They argued over water, or rather, over its lack. Based on its size and evolution, Venus was very similar to Earth, which meant that, at the end of the period of the formation of the crust from the magma, sizable amounts of gases and water vapors had to have appeared. Therein lay the question: where had the vapor gone? Demeskis was a proponent of the traditional viewpoint: due to the high temperature, the water decomposed into hydrogen and oxygen, the former evaporated to the upper layers of the atmosphere, while the latter oxidized the rocks. Mike Sviridov believed that the cause was different: a planetary catastrophe. Maybe another stellar body, a comet or an asteroid that had come too close, ripped the aquatic layer off Venus and dissipated it in space. If any water remained in the depths, it was only a pathetic remnant of its former abundance.

Demeskis replaced two cards, bet a little, and revealed four nines. Sviridov had another straight, and the computer had nothing. Pass. Luck wasn't on Durant's side today, but he didn't know that yet, peacefully resting in his quarters.

They didn't play for money, as that stage had been passed a long time ago and was rejected by everyone as not reflecting reality. Activities diversifying life were far more interesting: the winner picked a movie disk to watch or the day's lunch menu, while the loser got under the table or made rooster calls. Today, they were playing for the communications duty. According to the duty schedule, communication sessions took place every three days, if there were no storm-related interferences: the person on duty would extend the antenna, transmit their observation report, and receive instructions and news bulletins. An unpleasant procedure in 40-degree heat.

Sviridov and Demeskis had time to discuss their hypotheses and even argue over the broken drill, when the yawning Paul Durant came up to the lounge. By that point, it was clear that the computer had lost the game. There were a little over seven minutes until the communication session, just enough time to deploy the antenna.

"Go on up," the victorious Demeskis said, nodding at the computer screen. Then he added in Greek, speaking in hexameter. "Dreadful is the lot of the vanquished Titans! Terrible fate and horrible torments await them in Tartarus! It is not for them to battle at poker with the Olympians!"

"Cheaters!" Durant hissed, walked up to the dispenser, drank his fill, and disappeared in the elevator.

He returned half an hour later, sweat pouring off him, crimson, tired, with bulging eyes.

"Well, fellas, well… the latest news from Mother Earth… Arrival!.. Live feed on all channels… Mon Dieu! I don't even know how to say…"

"Keep it simple, Paul, simple," Sviridov encouraged him. "In your own words."

And Paul told them.

On Earth, the news was received in different ways. In the well-fed cities of Europe, in American and Japanese megalopolises, in Australia, in Canada, where rivers flowed with milk and honey, and even in Russia, not very wealthy, but too populated and large to be completely poor, the Arrival was received with enthusiasm. It varied from moderate to turbulent, passing into euphoria, but, by and large, the thousand-strong crowds on the streets of large cities were more celebrating than rampaging and panicking. The speeches of individual xenophobes were foiled by batons, water cannons, and pacification gas, and the most fervent of them were sent to mental hospitals, along with several hundred Neoluddites and Antiglobalists. The people of Rio de Janeiro threw a carnival titled "Us and the Galaxy"; Disneyland opened an exhibit of all the kinds of aliens thought up since the time of H.G. Wells; Hollywood revived the hundred-year-old movies like _My Stepmother Is an Alien_ and _Earth Girls Are Easy_; museums like the Louvre, the Museo Nacional del Prado, and the Hermitage were polishing the décor, assuming they would be visited by the celestial guests; Chile, Belgium, and Portugal granted amnesty to all; in Russia, a new variety of wheat was given the name _Triticum spatio_, "space wheat".

As for the third world countries (a very vague concept at the end of the 21st century), most of their citizens did not know about the Arrival and considered rumors of aliens from the galactic depths to be absurd and godless fiction. Naked aborigines of the Andaman Islands wandered the tropical forest looking for edible roots and grass and occasionally copulated; their language had two hundred words, and not one about aliens. If hundreds of millions of Chinese, Hindus, Arabs, and Africans worried about something coming from the sky, their concern was only for wind or rain. Humans, or non-humans, from space were as far from them as the Oort cloud, and not closer than the domes on Mars and the Asteroid Belt. Unlike the Andamanese, they had heard about the wonders of their time, the achievements in genetics, cloning, endosurgery, computers the size of a small coin, fusion power plants, manmade satellites circling the Earth, ships flying to Pluto; they had not only heard about them but, on occasion, seen all that on TV screens, the distant and not completely understood, unconnected to their daily lives. The aliens were one of those wonders, not connected to them in any way and not promising them medicine, new shoes, or even an extra handful of rice. If the Arrival meant something, it was only to the people to whom they did not feel a kinship, for the hungry did not believe the full.

However, the Crimson Jihad, the Children of Allah, and the Assassins were claiming that even the arrival of angels from the heavens would not protect the Jewish dogs and the Christian hyenas from righteous vengeance. Separatists of all sorts from Spain, Great Britain, Russia, the United States, and, of course, the Balkans, stood in solidarity with them. Neoluddites called for the refusal to contact a space, obviously machine-using, civilization; the greens feared for Earth's ecosphere, the last whales and elephants, which the aliens might export as rare curiosities; the Antiglobalists were, so far, silent, obviously being in disarray. China, Great Albania, and India filed a protest with the UN, stating that the Space Forces and, especially, Admiral Timokhin's Third Fleet did not represent Earth's society and did not have the authority to conduct negotiations. Therefore, a diplomatic mission needed to be created that would take into account the interests of the whole planet; otherwise, the protesting nations would send their own envoys to the Martian orbit to contact the aliens unilaterally. The UN reacted swiftly, under the influence of the Security Council, restricting space flight in the Solar System.

Otherwise, silence reigned on the political Olympus. The scientists, from physicists to sociologists, were making forecasts and hypotheses, the media were cooing and scaring, heralding the coming paradise or the unavoidable apocalypse, the stock markets were a bit feverish, and fusion securities crawled down, which was related to the hopes for new sources of energy. But Big Politics and Big Business, its lord and master, were silent. No intelligible announcements from either the UN or the Security Council, from the presidents and governments of the great powers, not a word from the big financiers, the heads of international corporations, the leaders of major parties. Then again, this was understandable, as Timokhin's flotilla had only encounters the aliens twenty-six hours ago.

Not everyone had formed a position. Not everyone had gotten rid of shock and confusion. Not everyone had assessed the impact and prospects, for there were no precedents or decisions.

And, finally, not everyone believed.


	13. Chapter 12

_This is a fan translation of _Invasion_ (Вторжение) by Mikhail Akhmanov, currently only available in Russian and, because of the author's passing in 2019, unlikely to ever be published in English. This is the first book in a six-book series called _Arrivals from the Dark_ (Пришедшие из мрака), which also has a six-book spin-off series called _Trevelyan's Mission_ (Миссия Тревельяна)._

_I claim no rights to the contents herein._

* * *

**Chapter 12**

Between the orbits of Mars and Earth

He was unable to speak with Yo immediately; she still appeared to be in a trance, although her eyes were open. Her light, lithe body burned Litvin through the suit, the scent made him dizzy; he was pressing her against himself, trying to avoid looking at her full breasts and hard nipples, at the smooth curves of the hips and the petite feet. He was not kidnapping a woman but a valuable ally or, at the very least, an informer, but it was difficult to convince himself of that. It had been many long weeks since he had touched a female body, had sensed the aroma of sweet and inviting flesh… The crew of the _Lark_ had included eighteen women, but Litvin had not gotten close to any of them. Then again, no one had been as beautiful and mysterious as Yo.  
Lowering Yo on the soft covering of the floor and ordering the lights on, Litvin looked around. The module's cabin was small but still more spacious than a fighter's cockpit: a wedge-shaped compartment five meters in length, with an airlock in the expanded side, where the machine docked with the deck. The narrow section ended in a hemispherical screen, and there, wrapped in film stretching from the floor to the ceiling, hung a naked pilot, just as long and bony as some of the creatures in the t'hami hall. There were no familiar chairs or any sort of control panels, switches, devices, and Litvin decided that he should ask the Ship how to operate this thing. Then he pulled on the film curtain. Suddenly, it opened up, and the pilot dropped right into his arms, pulling a tube or a cable stuck to his neck with him. Litvin ripped it out and dragged the pilot to the deck.

It was a gallery, the end of which disappeared far away, with a wall gleaming with hundreds of membrane hatches. Similar to the _Lark_'s deck C, but about twenty times longer, maybe even thirty or forty. All the hatches were identical, and Litvin, to avoid getting lost, counted seventy-seven from his own, got inside, and put his burden next to that module's owner.

"There you go, fellas… It's more fun together."

_He needs to be connected,_ the Ship said silently. _Otherwise, he will die._

"Connected? Where?"

_To the duplicate line._

A cable with an oval suction cup fell from above. Litvin turned it over in his hands, and stuck it to the pilot's forehead.

_Not there. To the neck, the nerve cluster._

He attached the flexible leash to a bump under the back of the head. The pilots was not like the familiar trolls and elves; it was more like a kikimora [a supernatural creature in Slavic mythology]. Pale, thin, fragile, with protruding joints and a palm-sized face overhung by a bloated skull… White eyes, a mouth with beak-like lips, a fold in the groin similar to a kangaroo's pouch; it either contained reproductive organs, or they were entirely absent. Obviously a specialized creature, Litvin decided and, shaking his head, returned to the gallery. Approaching his membrane, he stopped, touched the kaff on his temple, looked up as if trying to pierce the darkness of space with his eyes, through dozens of decks, bulkheads, and compartments. Then asked, "Is our fleet far away? And how many ships are in it?"

_In human measurements, fourteen-point-three million kilometers. Separate objects are not visible, they are moving in a tight formation._

"Time to the rendezvous?"

_Thirty-six hours._

_They're coming,_ Litvin thought, _they're coming!_ If he could rescue Abby and then, like in a fairy tale, hold out for one day and stand for one night!

He glanced at the endless row of hatches, and his jubilation faded. Weariness gripped him and, with it, hopelessness, hunger, and fear. For a moment, he felt himself trapped by these walls and the hundreds of war machines, the visible strength and power of the aliens. If it came down to a fight, how could this armada be defeated? And if it didn't come down, then it would be the end for them, him and McNeil. They were the initial specimens and, as the Ship had explained, were subject to termination…

It would be nice to bring this quasi-sentient beast to heel, along with this whole rat nest! First thing he needed to do was consult with Yo, Litvin decided and entered the module.

His prisoner, or ally, was still lying on the floor, stretching out her thin arms along her body. He removed the suit and the helmet, took out a thermos and tried to pour a tonic drink into her mouth. A thin trickle came down the edge of her lips to the cheek; it didn't look like she'd swallowed even a drop.

"Ship!" he called mentally. "What's wrong with her?"

_She is not yet awake. Typically, transition from t'hami to normal vital activity requires three to five hours. Additionally, she requires nourishment. Carbohydrates._

Litvin opened the ration pack, groped inside without looking, took out some plastic tubes, and examined them. Yellow and brown, honey and chocolate… Would this work for an alien female?.. And how could he force her to swallow that? Had he made a mistake by bringing Yo with him? The Ship had insisted that waking up would not harm her… But, perhaps, the t'hami halls had devices of some sort that were necessary for precisely this moment, some special nourishment and medication… He was suddenly afraid that Yo might die or remain in her stupor; her face seemed as white as marble, her muscles were stiff, her pupils melted in the silver eyes.

"What can I feed her with?" he asked and was surprised by the hoarseness of his voice.

Ahead, near the hemisphere and the pilot's place, a wall opened up. Behind the panel was a narrow cylindrical container with graduations, full of something the color of amber, gleaming, fluid. A thin tube (or a tentacle with a coin-like flat nipple) slid to Litvin, then a disembodied voice echoed in his head.

_Food and biostimulants. Administered intravenously._

"I have to puncture her skin?"

_No. Press it to where blood vessels are visible. Preferably on the wrist or on the crook of the elbow. Press down hard._

He did so. The nipple jerked a little in his fingers, the amber liquid in the container lowered by one graduation, and Litvin thought that some pink returned to Yo's cheeks. It was probably just his imagination, as Bino Faata skin was paler than human. But one reaction was definite: the pupils flickered with blue shadows in her eyes, like two fishes coming out of silver lakes.

_She will awaken,_ the Ship informed him. _However…_

"Yes?"

_She will be in a state of strong emotional arousal. She is in her tuahha period._

"We'll get through that," Litvin said, putting the nipple against his own wrist. "You know, I'm hungry too, so give me some calories as well. Preferably two servings."

The nipple jerked twice and disappeared behind the wall plating. Litvin sat, feeling heat quickly and powerfully spread through his blood, chasing away weariness and hunger. His head cleared up; apparently, this alien potion was far more effective than Earth-made tonic pills. He spent a short while thinking about a hundred things at the same time: how to rescue McNeil, his dead comrades-in-arms cut up and stored in jars, the approaching fleet, the living galaxy full of danger and wonder, the Ship and the hundreds of modules with sleeping pilots, and Yo's enticing body. The thoughts came like strobe light, but, gradually, their flow smoothed out, and the heat in his veins calmed down. Getting up, he stepped to the transparent film in front of the spherical screen.

"Ship!"

_I listen._

"Is this fabric a control surface?"

_The pilot is the controller. The fabric is the docking port for the module's systems. An interface similar to a kaff._

A cocoon, like in the Vultures but more advanced, Litvin decided and climbed inside. The film closed around him, gripping his head, shoulders, torso, limbs, and he felt a slight pressure, as if he was three or four meters underwater. And nothing else.

_A more intimate contact is required,_ the Ship told him. _Your clothing hinders it._

"Then let's take it off."

Getting out of the film's tight embrace, he dropped his shoes and jumpsuit to the floor, glanced at Yo, thought for a moment, and covered her with his clothes. Not out of a sense of decency but to keep her warm. Although it was more hot than cold in the cabin; it looked like the aliens preferred a warm climate.

The film also turned out to be warm, like a living being. Now Litvin felt like he had a second skin, and that sensation grew, and with it came another, a very strange one, as if he, suddenly, became something large, angular, and located in a huge pipe. He knew in his head that these visions were merely an illusion, but the mirage seemed more real, much sharper than the familiar sensation of melding with his fighter. His pilot reflexes came alive, making his muscles tremble; no, not muscles, something else, that was below. He could inexplicably feel himself hanging in the top section of a craft that looked like a box with a corner cut-off; a slit-like nozzle, a chamber, and a spiral winding around them led to the cut, right under his feet, and, behind this device, was some other machine, a toroidal assembly with shiny spheres covering its surface. A sense of trepidation came off it, his muscles responding with tension, a call; this was how an ear caught the distant sound of bells.

_An antigrav,_ the Ship rustled, and Litvin guessed that it was talking about the torus with spheres. _A gravity drive. Identical to these but less powerful._

A pair of enormous rings appeared, gripping the Ship's hull, and rows of battle modules between them. The image looked real, reflecting their spatial orientation; the background had the familiar constellations and the scarlet disk of Mars.

"What is this device?"

There was a pause. It seemed that the Ship was hesitating, even though such emotion should be excessive for a quasi-sentient creature. But Litvin did manage to catch it; hesitation, or something similar to cautious indecision.

_This is an annihilator,_ the voice in his head finally replied.

"A weapon?"

_Yes._

"Can I use it? Can I fly this thing?"

Another pause. Then, _Unlikely. The module is not designed for a human, a Bino Faata, or a regular t'ho. Only a pilot._

"Those thin, bony ones?"

_Yes. A genetically transformed breed of symbiotes, capable of operating the modules. Nothing else, only operate, fight, and, if necessary, die._ After a beat, the Ship added. _Soldiers._

"Operate, fight, die…" Litvin repeated aloud. "You don't think I can do it? With the kaff and this film?"

_This requires innate reflexes and training._

"Uh-huh… I guess we'll wait and see!"

He pulled the film from his body, separated its edges, and jumped down to the floor. Yo, covered by his jumpsuit, continued to lie near the entrance hatch, and Litvin decided not to bother her. He asked what Yata and Iveh were doing, if they were looking for the escaped Bino Tagari in all corners of the Ship, and received a reply that guards had been posted near the t'hami halls, and that the Keeper of Communications had gone into a trance but did not find anything. Nodding in satisfaction, Litvin reached for the combat suit, but he didn't want to put it on without clothes and decided to accept the clothing deficit, at least until Yo woke up. His naked butt wouldn't prevent him from speaking to the Ship.

"You showed me a map," Litvin said, "that ancient chart of the population of the galaxy. All those sentient races couldn't have died since the ancient times, correct?"

_Correct,_ the Ship confirmed. _New races have appeared._

"So why are they not answering us? We've been sending signals into space for over a century. We–"

He broke off, startled by the answer.

_You are of no interest to anyone until you become a threat. Although it is not out of the question that there are observers in your system. The region of the gas giant was patrolled by the Silmarri._

"Who?" Litvin forced out.

_Silmarri. One of the starfaring races whose sector is close to the New Worlds. To the Bino Faata colonies in this arm of the galaxy._

"So what did you do with it?"

_Their ship was destroyed._

"Heavy, by the reactor! Could there still be some of them on Earth? As these… observers?.."

_Negative. Terrestrial environment is hostile to them. They are different from humans._

An image appeared in his head as a sudden pulse. Litvin spent some time studying it, closing his eyes and comparing its scale to a human figure, then said, "A worm! Who knew? A sentient worm! Large one too… bigger than an anaconda… What do these Silmarri want here?"

_The Sheaf believes that they were studying a Daskin artifact. Your civilization knows it as the Great Red Spot on Jupiter. It is believed to be an entrance to a subspace tunnel leading to another galaxy._

_Why is this thing so open with me?_ Litvin thought. _Revealing all their secrets… Is that a game of some sort? Or is it certain I will never get out? Well, that hasn't yet been established, so it could have kept its mouth shut!_

Whether or not the Ship picked up on this thought, it did not react in any way. No explanations, no objections, no commentaries, nothing at all. Pausing for a few seconds, Litvin said, "Okay, so the Silmarri are curious about the Spot, what about the Bino Faata? They care about spots too?"

_Not entirely. Their primary task is to secure the perimeter._

"Really? Why?"

_Their expansion into this arm of the galaxy raised concern among the other sentient races. Active opposition is possible. To protect the New Worlds, an outpost is necessary. A star system with a planet suitable for habitation, easily-accessible resources, raw materials, and energy. Preferably, a populated one._

"So your symbiotes need a base," Litvin muttered through gritted teeth. "They'll hang their orbital fortresses here, charge the annihilators, and play war games with their enemies, these worms and the other galactic beasties. On our territory, of course… Vaporize Earth, followed by everything else, from Mercury to Pluto… Maybe there'll be nothing left except for the Great Red Spot… That I understand, we're in the area of someone else's strategic interests; when elephants fight, the grass suffers. But why do they need the grass? I mean an inhabited system? Why not pick an empty one… Proxima Centauri is nearby, and Sirius isn't that far away either, and Altair… Is there not enough space?"

_There is enough space,_ the Ship agreed. _But sapient creatures capable of working are the rarest resource in the galaxy. Who will build these orbital fortresses? The Bino Faata reproduce slowly, and there are far fewer of them than there are humans._

He needed to digest these revelations.

Litvin tore the kaff from his temple, put it into the ration pack, and got down on the floor next to Yo. The psychic connection to the quasi-mind was still an unknown and demanded caution; perhaps the Ship could hear the thoughts Litvin did not want to share. The experience he'd gained in the last several hours was still insufficient to judge the motives and intentions of such a strange creature that did not have any analogues in nature or in familiar technology. Artificial intelligences, like a Vulture's ANS, had been used on Earth for over half a century, but they were always programmed externally, either by people or by other machines. They were capable of self-learning and reacted appropriately in fairly complex situations, but their behavior algorithms were based on logic. Emotions could not be modeled mathematically, and all attempts at describing love and hate, fear and happiness ended in failure. Electronic brains, not prone to hesitation or doubt, always made one decision, and the level of their intelligence was determined only by the complexity of their programming and the number of parameters they were capable of taking into account.

Intuitively, Litvin sensed that the Ship's mind was different, more flexible, dynamic, and closer to human, no matter what the term "quasi" meant. It was apparent that the Ship could perceive emotions and even experience them; mostly likely, it resolved the problem of conflicting commands partly on a logical and partly on an emotional level, the way it happened with human desires; it was also possible that it had the freedom of choice, a quality necessary for a servant of two masters. Or rather, Litvin pondered, of one symbiote and another, not identifiable, for his own power over the Ship was a mystery. Either way, this being, or creature, was unlike a robot or a computer, meaning a lifeless mechanism merely imitating a mind. Unlike them, the Ship was on the verge of life and non-existence.

This made it a complicated opponent. Litvin was almost sure that there was a hidden cooperation between the Faata and the Ship, beneficial to both sides, and that without the Ship's service, the aliens were powerless. Could he break that alliance? But how? Putting an insoluble dilemma before the quasi-mind and thereby deadlocking it seemed more difficult than driving a hundred of the most powerful human-made computers insane. It was likely a completely impossible option, if the ancient Daskins had foreseen the deadlock, granting their creations free will. It would be more reliable to physically harm the Ship, destroy the brain, leaving only an empty shell, but Litvin had no idea how to approach this task. Storm the control room, incinerate the large node located under the sphere with the images of stars? But incinerate with what? No beam rifle, no laser... Besides, there would be other centers, hundreds and hundreds of nodes of the web, which was likely capable of regeneration. Poison them all? Again, with what? And what sort of matter composed these centers and nerve paths? They were, obviously, placed in bulkheads, protective casings... what if the material was flammable... would be a good idea to check... Or ask the Ship? How do I burn your ass, pal?

It wasn't that Litvin deemed such question unethical or inappropriate, but he was positive that he would not receive a reply. Yet another argument in favor of his quasi-sentient friend being more alive than dead.

Gradually, Litvin nodded off, and this time he saw honest simple dreams rather than nightmares: he was flying in a two-person training Vulture during a Martian dust storm, as he had nine years ago during practice, and the second seat was occupied by Serov, his instructor, an old, space-battered marine with a biomechanical arm. Rusty vortices passed by, the sky was impossible to make out, and Litvin was flying blind, on instruments. His task was to cross Tharsis [an enormous volcanic plateau in Mars's western hemisphere, with heights reaching from 4-5 to 8-9 kilometers.] along the 20th parallel, reach Olympus Mons [an ancient volcano in the western part of Tharsis, reaching 25 kilometers in height above sea level.], go around it, and return to Mangala Valles [flat lowlands to the west of Tharsis.], to the city of Seven Domes and the USF base. Litvin was flying well, confidently, and Serov appeared to be pleased; he relaxed in his cocoon, sat and muttered, "Nice flying, rookie, good job! Spend three years in the Belt knocking about among the pebbles, then land on Venus, and you'll be a proper pilot, not a cadet! Just be wary on Earth, strike first, so those bashibazouks don't shoot your stern off!" Saying that, he reached for Litvin with his biomechanical paw to pat him on the shoulder in violation of all regulations. Litvin felt his fingers, but, against expectations, they were not cold and metallic but warm and gentle, and now he felt that he might be in a Vulture, but he was naked, without a vacuum suit, a jumpsuit, or even boots. And it wasn't Serov near him, but someone else, as warm and gentle as the hand holding his shoulder.

Startled, he opened his eyes. Yo was lying in his arms; her skin smelled sweet, her breath was deep, intermittent, her cheek and temple pressing against Litvin's neck, her abdomen and thighs touching his rising loins. As if in a dream, which allowed things that he would never think while awake, he held her close, surprised by the fragility and the unexpected strength of the woman grasping him with a desperate, wild, unreasoning passion. Some would be scared by this, some would be pleased and happy, if it was a woman from Earth... _If only!.._ a thought hit Litvin on the head. _If only I knew what was happening to her!_

But, it was obvious that whatever was happening to him was more important. The mind, defeated by the flesh, was retreating, and Litvin imagined that it was not a child of another world in his arms but the most desirable girl on Earth. She was so beautiful! His fingers became entangled in the mane of her dark, gleaming hair, he pulled back her head, dug into her half-open lips, and started kissing her nipples. Yo's breath burned him.

She did not return his kisses, probably having no understanding of concepts like caresses, love games or motions, all that preceded copulation in humans. But she was also not, apparently, offering herself, not trying to lie down or sit, as was normally done in these cases, spread her knees, push her breasts towards Litvin's hungry lips and encourage him further. She just held him, grabbing his shoulders with both arms, as if afraid that he would suddenly disappear, leaving her alone among the walls converging at the screen.

But she was also gripped by the desire; the trepidation of Yo's body, her deep sighs, and his unerring instinct told Litvin that. For some time, he was trying to remember, caressing her breasts and neck with his lips, going through his memories of what the Ship told him about the innermost secrets of this race. Tuahha, a time of emotional activity, a period when the Bino Faata entered into physical contact for purpose of reproduction... Or rather, they had done that before, but now it was considered barbaric... But one couldn't argue with nature!

He quietly laughed.

"Yo, my dear fairy! You forgot how to do it... Great galaxy! You forgot!"

It was so wonderful, so delightful to remember... To remember together, to listen to Yo's groans, catch her sighs, kiss her eyes and lips, feel a strong, gentle body shudder in sync with his... Who was he sharing this pleasure with? An alien, an extraterrestrial? No, she was not alien. Maybe not from Earth, but not alien! Not anymore... A girl from another world discovering love and passion for the first time...

When their breath calmed down, Litvin got up into a sitting position, leaning on a wall, not releasing Yo from his embrace. The heat was leaving her body, the muscles, only recently tense with love, relaxed, the bleary eyes became clear and sharp. Looking into Litvin's face, she muttered something in the Faata language. The sharp, stacatto sounds were unfamiliar to him. He raised an eyebrow, and Yo, now fully awake, spoke in English, "Where are we? How did I get here?"

"This is a module. The cabin of a battle module hanging in an enormous hangar. I brought you here."

"Why?"

A few minutes earlier, Litvin would have trouble answering. Before, the answer had been the resolution of a dilemma, whether he considered her a prisoner or an ally, with no other options. Before... Now everything was different. Maybe not everything, but a lot.

"Why?" she repeated.

"I was lonely... I..."

The woman's eyes darted around the cabin, stopping to look at the contact film, which was hanging off the ceiling in a transparent spindle, at the combat suit on the floor. Suddenly, turning back to Litvin, Yo touched his cheek. What was that? A caress? A desire to confirm that he was real?

"You?..."

"I escaped. Reached the _Lark_, and there was some trouble with olks. There was also some sort of beast... a p'hot... It and I also resolved our differences. Then I went to the t'hami halls to find McNeil... that girl... Encountered more olks in the hallway, next to your dormitory. Well, and..."

Yo continued to look at him, not asking how he'd gotten out of his chamber, how he'd traveled through the Ship, and what sort of trouble the olks had suffered. It didn't seem to concern her, at least for the moment. Pausing for a minute, Litvin asked, "What is happening to us, my dove? To you and me?"

"Tuahha," she whispered, "tuahha, the ancient whirlwind of life... the whirlwind that has picked us up and carried us away..." After a beat, she added. "I did not know how beautiful it could be..."

He stroked her naked shoulders, looked into her eyes. Turquoise pupils gleamed in the silver lakes.

"You are so much like us... in every respect, except where you differ." Not a complete truth, but he genuinely believed his words now. His face had a dreamy smile, and it seemed as if he, leaving the narrow compartment of an alien ship, had returned to Earth, to a world that may not be safe but was familiar and native. He was sitting on the banks of the Dnieper, with a girl of unrivaled beauty next to him...

Yo's lips also stretched in a clumsy smile. Her hand slid down her breasts to her abdomen, then down the marble skin of her hip and froze on her knee. She did not seem to be embarrassed by her nudity.

"Art," she said suddenly, "your strange art, the strip show... We do not have anything like that. I am like that human female now, the one who was disrobing... Does my appearance please you?"

"It does," Litvin confirmed. "But striptease has nothing to do with it. Not the striptease, not the art, not yours and ours, not this damn galaxy. It's something else, Yo, this is only about you and me. That whirlwind of life you were talking about... It's just for the two of us, understand?"

_You will,_ he added to himself. _You will understand, find out the point of kissing, learn to smile and whisper the words of love. If only..._

_If only we stay alive,_ he finished the thought. _If we don't burn in the nuclear explosion when the cruisers attack the Ship, not fry in the plasma streams, not die under the swarm volleys. If your compatriots don't find us, if the trolls don't finish us off, if a p'hot doesn't rip us apart... Life is such a thin line in the darkness and chaos of the universe! It's so easy to cut it!_

Yo stirred.

"I need to get dressed. I also need a kaff... Without it, moving through the Ship will be inconvenient. We will have to deactivate each membrane."

"Where will you get all that?"

"Anywhere. There are things everywhere... like... you call them dispensers. Devices where one can get clothing and something else."

"Weapons?"

"No."

Litvin released his embrace, and she stood up. Naked and beautiful, she stood and looked at him; not a prisoner and not an ally, but a lover. Then her lips quivered, and smooth sounds, so unlike the staccato speech of the Faata filled the cabin.

"What are you saying, darling?"

"An ancient tongue, ancient words... During the era of the First Phase, they were used to greet the coming of tuahha. I did not understand before what they meant." Raising her hands, Yo sang, chirping, "Two moons in your eyes, their light in your face, the fire of your hands burns; it is the flame of tuahha, the flame in you and in me. I am dust, I am ash, and the whirlwind carries me to the sky, the whirlwind of life in your hands, as long as eternity. There are no barriers between us, no walls separating us, I am you, you are me, two intertwined stalks in the fire of tuahha..."

She made a strange gesture, as if crossing the membrane diagonally, and disappeared.

They'd had that too, Litvin thought, stepping into the jumpsuit legs. Love and love songs... Been and gone! It had either been lost in the Eclipses, disappeared on its own, or deemed excessive and discarded. Instead of days of love, a happy gift, they had the artificial insemination of the ksa females, while the rest got lethargic sleep. Maybe even humanity would get to that point? Perhaps after a couple of disasters. Especially since there were preconditions: humans were not Bino Faata, they were not united and never had been. It was so easy to take the next step, turning the Chinese into t'ho, the warlike Arabs into olks, and Africans and Hindus into fertilizer.

That, of course, if the Faata themselves wouldn't start doing that. Why not? Based on the shipboard conditions, everything on Earth was suitable for them: air, water, gravity, climate; as for terrestrial diseases, they'd probably already resolved that problem. They had to have, Litvin reasoned, putting on his boots, if there were problems in that area, all the aliens would have already been dead from the flu or bloody diarrhea with dysentery. They would deal with the rest too: the great Western civilization, the greens and Neoluddites, the space fleet and the Heavenly Kingdom, rebels, terrorists, blacks, Asians, whites, with all not fully sentient Earthlings. They wouldn't destroy but enslave them. As the Ship had said, sapient creatures capable of working were the rarest resource in the galaxy.

Yo slipped silently through the membrane and sat across from Litvin. Her posture was natural and graceful, like that of a Japanese woman; like that culture, the Bino Faata used very little furniture. Except, perhaps, for tables for food; as for chairs, couches, and beds, they were substituted by the floor and zero-g areas.

Yo's coveralls were shimmering like peridot and seemed like a second skin; a spheroid was glittering in her dark hair. Litvin took his kaff out of the backpack and also attached it to his temple. The space around him expanded, unfolded, thousands of optic nerves connected him to thousands of eyes in thousands of compartments, but he, with a familiar effort, turned off the mirage. He wanted to look only at Yo, to see her, admire her, talk to her.

The woman's eyes suddenly widened, the turquoise pupils fading, drowning in the silver background.

"You have a kaff? Where did you get it?"

"From you. Did you not slip it to me? In my chamber?"

"No. I… I wanted to help you… even earlier, before we were connected by tuahha… But I could not."

"Were you afraid?"

Yo spread her arms in a negative gesture.

"That would be pointless. Our kaffs don't work for humans. Your mind… brain… has a different structure than the Bino Faata. Not simply different frequencies, but different connections between neurons, a different worldview, stronger emotions… That is what Iveh said. He also said that your subconscious is like a fog-covered abyss: steam rises up, to your mind, influencing your perception of reality, but this process is so complicated that Iveh was unable to figure it out. It's likely that the subconscious is the source of your art and religion, the concepts unfamiliar to us and not entirely understood. Here," Yo touched her forehead, "are more differences than here, "she pressed her palm against her lower abdomen.

_Their kaff won't work! That's something!_ Litvin thought. The clear and obvious had suddenly become a mystery. Frowning, he pulled off the kaff and handed it to Yo.

"Give me yours. I want to try."

The bead obediently stuck to his temple. Nothing. No sensation of unity with the Ship, no multicolored pictures from thousands of optic effectors… Yo also hid his small sphere in her hair, but it remained lifeless, not glowing, not flaring with rainbow sparks. Neither interface was working.

They switched kaffs again.

"If it wasn't you who gave it to me, then who?" Litvin spoke. "Without the kaff, I wouldn't have been able to pass through the membrane… I wouldn't have even been able to move around the Ship!"

"It," Yo said, spreading her arms wide, "it made the kaff for you. Iveh had said that he could not understand if you were fully or partly sentient. Perhaps these classifications don't even apply to your people. It became interested in this and decided to try to enter into direct contact with you." Leaning over to Litvin, she whispered, "These creations of the Daskins have strange desires… very strange!"

"By 'it' you mean the Ship?"

"Yes."

"But how can it make anything? It's a brain!"

"There is a place… places… you would call them workshops. It can use them without t'ho and makes different things. Using mechanical arms."

A fully automated factory, Litvin realized. It seemed that the Ship carried not only the crew with a battle fleet but also manufacturing capability: for repair, processing of raw materials, restocking, and other needs.

He thought for a moment, then said, "I could ask it. I can find out why it did that."

"It will not answer."

"It will if I order it to."

"Order?" The pupils in Yo's eyes faded again. This appeared to be an indication of surprise.

"Can you not give it commands? Using the kaff?"

"No. A kaff is only an interface for t'ho. It allows us to maintain psychic communication, use transportation and dispensers, activate visual devices in alcoves. Through the kaff, I can communicate with Iveh and the other full sentients. Also—"

"Wait." Litvin moved closer to her and squeezed her thin wrist. "Wait, girl. I will talk to it, and you listen." Closing his eyes, he called out, "Ship! My kaff does not look like a regular communication device. How did it get here?"

_It does not,_ the Ship's disembodied voice confirmed. _No data exists regarding its appearance. It was not there, then it was._

"So you didn't make it?"

_No._

Litvin spent a second sitting in stunned silence, then opened his eyes and spoke.

"There is a t'ho female with me. Block the information about her location."

_Command accepted._

He looked at Yo. She spread her arms.

"I did not hear anything. Did you speak with it?"

_I did. It insists that the kaff is indeed unusual but was not created by it. How it got here is also unclear. It wasn't there, then it was._

They stared at one another.

"Daskins, the lords of the galaxy…" Yo whispered almost inaudibly. "They have a gate on the gas giant… Daskins could appear here in the space of a breath…"

"I thought they disappeared a long time ago. Millions of years ago… Is that not true?"

"It is believed that they have, but who really knows? Who visited their worlds? Who saw their destruction? Who has known the ways of the Daskins?"

She trembled, and Litvin pulled her close. It would be useful to ask her about these Daskins in more detail! Maybe he could even find a key to the Ship… After all, these quasi-sentient beasties were Daskin creations, their property. Maybe they were tools abandoned as no longer needed, or maybe just garbage that they'd forgotten or hadn't wished to destroy…

But this topic frightened Yo, and he decided not to press her. Inhaling the sweet scent of her skin, he kissed her eyes, feeling the trepidation of her body under the thin fabric of her clothing. _How do I remove it?.._ Litvin thought and reached for his jumpsuit's zipper.

His hand froze in midair. McNeil! He'd completely forgotten about her! And something else… Something he was definitely going to find out…

"You know much, Yo, even the ancient language and the ancient songs of your race. How can one doubt your mind? And yet, they all consider you t'ho, of limited sentience. You and Yegg… Why? You are different from olks and the pilots of these modules, you are like Iveh and the other Faata. You–"

She put her hand to Litvin's lips and whispered again.

"You are mistaken, we are not like Iveh. The fully sentient can communicate telepathically without amplification devices, speak almost without words and give orders to t'ho, reaching their minds. They do not need kaffs, understand? A kaff is… You would say, like a crutch for a cripple, and t'ho are the cripples, mentally underdeveloped, all breeds of t'ho, those like me, and olks, and ksa, and eight other kinds." Yo's whisper became rapid, difficult to hear; she was muttering like in delirium, burning Litvin's neck with her breath. "The sentients order, and we obey… cannot refuse to obey… cannot conceal anything, not that we have anything to conceal… We serve, work, protect, and, when the time comes, go into t'hami… in the New and Old Worlds… cycle by cycle, without change, without happiness… Our time is quickly running out, while the Faata have long lives… there are those who have been living since the beginning of the Third Phase…"

Feeling immense compassion, Litvin embraced her and put her on his knees. After several minutes, when their clothes were discarded, when their breath merged, and Yo's quiet moans stirred the air, when his lips clung to her lips, he noticed that the kaff on her temple was glowing like a blinding flame. At the same moment, he felt the Ship's thoughts.

_Emotions.. such strong emotions.. they were not as clear the first time…_


	14. Chapter 13

_This is a fan translation of _Invasion_ (Вторжение) by Mikhail Akhmanov, currently only available in Russian and, because of the author's passing in 2019, unlikely to ever be published in English. This is the first book in a six-book series called _Arrivals from the Dark_ (Пришедшие из мрака), which also has a six-book spin-off series called _Trevelyan's Mission_ (Миссия Тревельяна)._

_I claim no rights to the contents herein._

* * *

**Chapter 13**

On Earth and in other places

THEY WERE HUMANOID! This was the most important news, spread by thousands of news agencies, TV and radio channels, Ultranet sites, newspapers, magazines, and reviews. The news was comprehensively discussed, which was underlined by story headlines: "Third Fleet Contacts Alien Ship," "Bino Faata Are Human not Alien," "Arrival of Our Brethren," "Binucks Got Two Arms And Two Legs," "They're No Angels, But There's No Reason to Worry," "Einstein Was Wrong: Speed of Light Not the Limit," "Shaming of Skeptics: New View on Habitability of the Universe," "Admiral Timokhin Negotiating with Binucks," "Bino Faata Women Are Beautiful," "Secret of Interstellar Travel: Will They Share With Us?" The Friendly Containment directive was announced by the UN, after which the politicians' floodgates opened; their forecasts and hypotheses poured in torrents, mixing with the murky stream of writers' fantasies and scientists' opinions. The President of Francospain considered the contact as great an event as the creation of the Unified Market; the British Prime Minister had no doubt that that the meeting between the two civilizations, the Bino Faata and humankind, would open magnificent prospects for them; the USC Congress prepared a memorandum with some interesting thoughts; for example, it suggested an exchange of ideas: the concept of democracy for the plans for an interstellar drive. Moscow immediately responded, believing that Russia's young democracy could give the aliens fresher recipes. The heads of both great powers gave public speeches to their nations and the world. The Russian leader reminded the people about his own foresight, thanks to which the aliens were near the orbit of Mars, and not above Earth's cities; his counterpart in Washington, who was running for re-election in sixteen months, chose a different topic: interstellar trade and economic revival. The revival didn't stop there: the government of Argentina approved incentives for the supply of meat to the aliens, Australia decided to increase the production of fur, China did the same for china cups, jasper spheres, and other souvenirs, Italy, Greece, and Francospain were undertaking inventory of wines, cosmetics, high fashion products, and resorts, Egypt was hastily repairing the Pyramids, Afghanistan quietly expanded the planting of cannabis and poppies. Terrorists, including the implacable Muslims, quieted down, obviously deciding that the Arrival had not brought with it anything more frightening than a great deal of fuss, which worked well for kidnappings, blackmail, and explosions.

It seemed that everything on Earth and in the Solar System was fine, everything was ready for a rendezvous with aliens; the stocks of power companies even went up 2 points. The only real dissonance was an article by Gunther Voss in the _CosmoSpiegel_ titled "THEY ARE HUMAN. THE MOST TERRIBLE THING HAS HAPPENED."

The mural with St. George piercing a dragon was covered up by a big film screen, hastily installed in the Admiral's cabin. There were plenty of screens in the neighboring compartments, where the flotilla's staff officers could be found, but Timokhin conducted the negotiations only from the cabin, and only here one could find transmitting cameras. Those aboard the enormous ship, hanging in space a hundred and thirty kilometers from the _Suzdal_, could see chairs, cabinets, and tables, but not combat equipment.

The faces of three aliens loomed on the screen. One was obviously old, with wrinkly skin, greenish hair, and drooping lips; his name was Iveh, and he took up a high post in the alien hierarchy: either an ambassador or an intermediary. Basically, a hard-boiled diplomat, who had mastered English and a great number of terrestrial truths, from listening to transmissions on a hundred channels for a month. His two assistants were incredibly beautiful women, and Timokhin had no doubt that their pictures, sent to Earth along with his reports, had made a splash. If only because the Binucks' sexual dimorphism was expressed to an equal extent to humans: delicate features, full bright lips, smooth skin, and voluminous hair sharply contrasted with Iveh's mug. Although, their eyes did look strange: occasionally, the pupils drowned into the silver background, and it was unclear where they were looking.

Iveh had not introduced his assistants, and, at the start of the negotiations, in the heat of amazement and shock, it seemed that both were identical. Tojo, his second adjutant (who invented the term "Binucks"), had noticed the difference; being a personnel specialist and an experienced psychologist, he had incredible observation skills. The upper lip of one of the girls drooped over the lower one, and her hair was darker; this one was dubbed Morgan; the other, for symmetry, was named Elaine [Morgan le Fay and Elaine of Garlot are mythical characters from the legends of King Arthur; they are his half-sisters]. They were, most likely, doing the same thing Tojo and Jarvis were doing, who were sitting on both sides of Timokhin: observing, listening, analyzing.

"The option you suggest is rejected," Timokhin said, trying to enunciate each word. "At the moment, your presence on Earth or near the planet is undesirable. We insist on a different decision."

"Why?" Iveh grated. His English has grown noticeably better by the fourth communication session, only his pronunciation remained too staccato and sharp.

"There are several reasons. First, there are many artificial objects in near-Earth space: communication satellites, shipyards, radio telescopes, space habitats. Your ship is too large. When maneuvering among these structures, it could damage them. Second, the population of Earth differs based on their level of knowledge and culture. The approach of your ship could cause a panic in some communities. Panic leads to loss of life. Third, this is our star system. While your ship is here, we wish to monitor it. The monitoring function will be performed at our convenience. Fourth..."

Negotiations were a dreary thing, but Timokhin was pleased. He could have listed the reasons for that just as meticulously: first, second, fifth, tenth. The main thing was, of course, with _whom_ to negotiate; it wasn't every day one met aliens, especially in a situation that seemed to have been predicted in advance. Well, the predictor would get his dividends, and he, Timokhin, would get his... But was it about the dividends? He had been an ass with these maneuvers, but became a historic persona. It was a good thing he hadn't shown his annoyance and anger to anyone: not his captains, not his staff, not his adjutants. He had behaved as if there was nothing more important than those stupid maneuvers in empty space; and space had turned out not to be so empty after all! It would be prudent to type up a dispatch to Gorchakov. Something like, "You have my gratitude, Boris, and I'm not holding a grudge..."

The intermediary listened to Timokhin's speeches with a dispassionate expression akin to a sphinx. It seemed to Tojo that Binucks expressed their emotions to a lesser extent than humans, and his opinion, after analyzing the recordings, was supported by the fleet's medics and specialists back on Earth. Timokhin and his advisors were given the following recommendations: no smiling, no scratching, no frowning, no head jerking, no staring at the aliens too openly. Tojo managed to do so better than the others; he was Japanese and was used to showing restraint since childhood.

"I understand," Iveh turned to Morgan, then to Elaine, as if interested in their opinions, then stared at Timokhin again. "I must object. First, I promise that, when the Ship is maneuvering, your structures will not be damaged. Second, do not inform your population of our approach. We will set down in any unpopulated area, accessible only to groups of contactees. Third, your ability to monitor the Ship will be more effective when it lands. A motionless object is easier to monitor. Fourth..."

Something wasn't right here, Timokhin thought, listening to Iveh. They were too eager to get to Earth... But why? Missing the sun and the grass? Doubtful... Their tub was huge, probably had amenities. They had no need to rush... Their persistence was too suspicious.

He began to examine Morgan and Elaine, their strange eyes and voluminous hair, where he could see small bright spheres shimmering. A beautiful race, no doubt! It would be nice to see other men and women... The ship was large, and there were probably children there too...

"S-sir," Tojo hissed in Russian, "I beg your pardon, s-sir... and you, Jarvis-s... Do not look s-so intently at the girls-s, look lower, at the center of the s-screen."

Iveh stopped talking.

"I am not ruling out that you are correct," Timokhin spoke, "but we are not prone to relying on unconfirmed assertions and facts. The Pillar of Order has given me clear instructions: your ship cannot get close to Earth. The decision is not final; it is entirely possible we will change it, but that requires mutual trust."

"Pillar of Order" was an alien term indicating a leader. It was assumed that Timokhin was acting on behalf of some leader of Earth, while a team of diplomats and scientists was being prepared. This procedure was not simple and involved a lot of arguing, as China, Arab countries, and India insisted on full representation. While this story dragged on, Timokhin was supposed to hold off the cosmic guests, gently, friendly, but, if necessary, with the full strength of his cruisers. Deciding to strengthen the flotilla, he had sent out orders to redeploy the _Starfire_ and the _Siberia_, as well as the _Barracuda_, which was moving from Jupiter's orbit.

The intermediary continued to look at Timokhin in silence, seemingly waiting for him to continue.

"We are prepared to deliver your representatives to Earth. A group of twenty or thirty people will fit aboard a cruiser in comfort, and their compartments will be considered your sovereign territory. What is bad about this option?"

Morgan chirped something. After listening to her, Iveh said, "We are unable to leave the Ship for an extended time. There are... physiologically-necessary conditions here. It would be impossible to re-create them aboard your vessel."

"Then let's consider another possibility. A mission from Earth will arrive soon, and we will undertake the first step of mutual acquaintance in space."

But that also failed to satisfy the intermediary. He wanted for the enormous Faata ship to descend to Earth, and his insistence seemed more and more suspicious to Timokhin. Of course it was easier to monitor a motionless object, but where was the guarantee that this flying monstrosity would land? If it found itself near the planet, it could initiate hostile actions, and combat near the atmosphere, above cities, forests, and oceans, would almost certainly end in an environmental cataclysm.

However, Timokhin did not consider such a turn of events, considering himself to be the top dog. The _Suzdal_ hung above the enormous ship, flanked by two cruisers, the _Viking_ and the _Volga_; the _Sakhalin_, the _Pamir_, and the _Lancaster_, three heavy cruisers, surrounded the alien on three sides, and there were six more combat units between them. The "Ring" tactical formation used when blowing up asteroids... The last one had been destroyed seven years ago, and it was no smaller than the Faata starship. A missile volley from a hundred kilometers away cracked a planetoid's crust down to the granite layer; artificial structures would simply be vaporized in the nuclear explosion, and the radiation pressure would throw the plasma beyond the edge of the Solar System. There, in the emptiness of space, the alien would find their rest, in the form of a rarefied gas cloud.

Did Iveh understand that?

If he did, then he didn't seem to be bothered by it.

"The Pillar of Order," the intermediary suddenly croaked. "There is no single Pillar of Order on your world!"

"Obviously, the same is true for you," Timokhin called back, but Iveh ignored his words.

"We are receiving signals from your planet and know that some Pillars of Order are expressing their desire to receive us. If we descend to Earth's surface within their territories, they will benefit."

"Benefit how?"

"New knowledge and technology, leading to prosperity. Production of food from any organic matter. Methods of combating microorganisms dangerous to you. Cheap sources of energy. The gravity drive. Methods of communication based on studies of the brain. Strong lightweight materials," Iveh listed indifferently, lowering his wrinkled eyelids. Suddenly, they lifted up, and the intermediately spoke. "Also wave therapy. Methods different from yours. Ours allow us to push away old age and extend life."

Without turning his head, Timokhin felt his advisors become alert. "Attention, s-sir," Tojo whispered, but he did not need this hint, he knew that it was an opportunity to learn something truly important about the Binucks. Besides the obvious facts: that they were similar to humans and that they could travel through the galaxy.

"Looking at you, it is difficult to believe that you pushed away old age," Timokhin spoke.

"By human measurements, I have lived for nearly two thousand years. As for my face... If necessary, I could replace it. But there is no need."

Jarvis gave a barely noticeable shrug. He was doubting... Well, that was fair: there was no way to verify what Iveh said, Tacitus and Pliny [Tacitus (AD 55 – AD 120) and Pliny the Elder (AD 23 – 79 AD) were great Roman historians.] had not rocked his cradle. The list of boons was interesting, though... But what would they demand in exchange?

"Well, back to our muttons, I mean the Pillars of Order," Timokhin said. "Maybe in your social structure they are all equal, but we have a different situation. Until you get familiarized with it, it would be dangerous to listen to reckless declarations, and even more dangerous to believe them."

"How will you prove that?"

"With the fact of our meeting. There are no other ships here except those sent by my Pillar of Order. If you wish, we could wait... But I assure you, no one else will show up."

Elaine and Morgan chirped simultaneously, and the intermediary, as if listening to them, closed his eyes. Then he muttered, "We will think. Communication terminated."

The screen went dark. Timokhin undid the chair's harness, then moved from the cabin to the staff compartment with Tojo and Jarvis. There, floating in zero-g near panels and consoles, experts and a dozen officers were working. Communications officers and two information division lieutenants were, under Mägi's direction, preparing the complete recording for transmission to Earth, to the Security Council, and an abridged version for the media. A group of observers and analysts, gathered around Commodore Shengelia, the first officer and tactical advisor, was discussing something. Duplicate screens were turned on, and each one had the frozen image of Iveh's face with white eyes, like that of a boiled fish.

"Admiral on board!" Shengelia roared.

"At ease." Timokhin waved at the officers and, grabbing a brace, turned to the assistant. "What do you say, Archil?"

"I'll say that their girls are beautiful. I will also say that they are familiar with deception, intrigue, and the concept of a threat. None of that surprises him." Commodore nodded at the screen. "And something else... something..."

"Hypocrisy," Tojo suggested.

"Yes, correct. You threatened him, he threatened you, but not openly. Just waved his fist behind his back."

"Plus the bribe attempt," one of the analysts added.

"He promised too many boons," another one said. "I don't believe these Binucks."

"Neither do I," Timokhin nodded and looked at the tactical light tablet. The Faata starship hung in its depths, a finger-sized cylinder, surrounded by the tiny gleaming arrows of the cruisers. So small, but concealing destructive power... He suddenly remembered the Chilean astrodrome and Gunther Voss, the joker from the _CosmoSpiegel_. He'd said something about lasers and missiles... Comedian! But on the ball, the first to sniff out the Chinaman's observations. Although no one could say now what that Liu fellow had seen; was it even a flash, and was it connected to the alien ship? Maybe to the _Lark_, after all? But the _Barracuda_ hadn't found anything: no debris, no radioactive dust, absolutely nothing...

He nodded again, at Shengelia this time.

"Summarize the information, Commodore, and have the report on my desk. I'll be in my quarters."

The hatch closed behind him, with the marine standing on duty saluting. Grabbing the braces and looking forward to rest, Timokhin headed to his quarters, but thoughts of the _Lark_ would not leave him. What had happened there, near Jupiter? Could the Binucks know something? This intermediary? He scowled and grunted gloomily. If he did, he wouldn't say... One word: deceiver, hypocrite.

This time they were conferring telepathically. Iveh, the Speaker with the Bino Tegari, was next to the transmitter, Keeper Tiych was in an isolated cavity of the nerve node, where it was easy to communicate with the Ship, Kaya, the Guardian of the Heavens and the Strategist, was submerged into the contact substance, which allowed him to control hundreds of large and small modules. The Pillar of Order himself floated near the observation sphere, where twelve silver sparks glittered, the pathetic fleet of the Bino Tegari.

"Your conclusions, Intermediary?" Yata inquired. His thought was cold and demanding.

"They will not let us pass to the inhabited world. Their Strategist is confident in their superiority and that the group that have sent him is the most powerful. Effectively running their planet."

"What do you suggest?"

"Teach them a lesson, as the humans call it."

"Destroy?"

"Yes. But, before that, send a message to Earth, to all the conflicting groups. Do not skimp on promises. Their social system is unstable, billions live worse than our t'ho. They will see the destruction of the fleet as an act of just retribution."

"Accepted," Yata said. "What do you have, Guardian of the Heavens?"

"I require three-quarters of a cycle to reactivate all modules. But thirty-two are already prepared. That should be sufficient."

An emotion of joyful exhilaration came from Kaya; like all Strategists, he was fierce and lived in anticipation of battle. Yata's responding thought cooled him. He squirmed in the contact substance in displeasure; the substance looked like green jelly, and thirty-two t'ho pilots in the reactivated modules felt the pulse of anger.

"Do not rush, Strategist. One who rushes small things slows down the step of the great things. Allow Iveh to send our promises to Earth. Wait. You will strike in a cycle."

Then the Pillar of Order addressed Tiych, the fourth in the Sheaf, touching his mind.

"Have you located the escaped Bino Tegari?"

"He lost us among thermal sources. Perhaps we should check clusters of them?"

"The t'hami halls are being patrolled. He is also not in cargo and reserve cavities. What else can we do?" Yata emitted dissatisfaction, and the Keeper shuddered.

"Nothing yet, Pillar of Order. The Ship is not informing us where the escapee is, but its reactions are normal otherwise. I will come up with some means, but this will require time. It is not easy to deceive the Ship."

It was not, Yata agreed silently. The quasi-sentients had strange whims, as each of them was almost a living being and, thus, a redundant system. Redundancy was the price of reliability and flexibility, which a dead mechanism lacked. He remembered that, because of such devices which were trusted too much, the two previous Phases had collapsed.

"Search for him, but carefully," Yata ordered the Keeper and finished with the traditional formula. "Let us never again see the darkness of an Eclipse!"

They broke the connection.

"This is JBC, and with you, as in the previous days, is once again Patrick McCaffrey with a news overview. Over the past several hours, nearly a hundred and forty news agencies, TV and radio channels, possessing powerful orbital antennae, distributed a message received from the Bino Faata. Yes-yes, you heard right, this is not another USF bulletin that we receive in a censored state, but a message from the aliens themselves. I will note that the video is absent; all we hear is a female voice addressing us in flawless English. But the possibility of a hoax is out of the question: the transmission is directed, and all the antennae are oriented in the same direction: to the part of the celestial sphere where our cosmic guests and the ships of the Third Fleet are located at this moment. I am certain that this is not a joke played on us by Admiral Timokhin or his subordinates.

And so, what are the aliens telling us? In the first part of their message is a reproach which, we can assume, is addressed to the UN, the Security Council, and the USF. As it turns out, the Third Fleet is blocking the Faata advancement to Earth, and the negotiations regarding this matter are still fruitless. The aliens believe that the USC, the UK, the EAU, and the other nations dominating Earth's society are determined to use the advantages of the contact, receiving unilateral technical and scientific information that is meant for all countries and nations of Earth. The second part I would call the Big Promise, as it lists a number of technologies planned for transmission to humanity. For the next hour, we will analyze all the items on the list, from new materials with unique properties to the antigrav, meaning a device that regulates gravity, but first I will touch on a particular position. Particular, for its influence on our society will be enormous and unparalleled in the history of civilization! As you may have already understood, I am speaking about life extension, and not by ten or twenty years, but at least double or triple. As the Bino Faata are claiming, they are physiologically identical to humans but live five, six, or more centuries, which is achieved by a set of measures: wave therapy, cryogenic procedures, and a number of medications slowing down aging. Will that be accessible to humanity? Our guests from space say 'Yes!' And that means that humanity's age-old dream..."

Patrick McCaffrey's overview, highly informative and full of optimistic forecasts, was nonetheless not heard by everyone. That same night, Boris Sergeyevich Gorchakov was conversing with Asadin on a secret channel; the time had finally come to discuss the mandate to extend the military base in Syria. Jozef Kalikh, the Martian _Mariner_ station's traffic controller, was sleeping, and the pretty communications worker Christina was quietly snoring next to him. In this region of Mars, cold, darkness, and night reigned, but the _Copernicus_ planetologists, sitting in the hotel bar, continued their old argument: what was the Great Red Spot: a spatial singularity or a temporal wormhole? They weren't interested in other topics; at least until they resolved this issue. Aboard the heavy cruiser _Taiga_, there was no time for McCaffrey's overviews; the ship, approaching Eros, was maneuvering to match her velocity to the whimsical motion of the lump of rock. Commander Chernov, the senior communications officer, was still stuck at the receiver, but he was not fishing out news but arguing with the geophysicists from the asteroid division. They wanted for the cruiser to hover right above the camp, near peaked mountains, and turn to put the cargo hatches towards the herd of mining machines and drill robots. John A. Bradford, the former director of the Kepler Observatory, had spent the last four days not listening to the radio or watching TV but pumping himself full of brandy, cursing Liu Chang and mourning his career. Admiral Chavez on the Lunar Base and Admiral Haley, approaching Mars, were not interested in either McCaffrey's overviews or the JBC network in general, since they had access to more serious information: secret documents, reports, statements of experts and analysts.

But Angelotti, the head of the _CosmoSpiegel_, and Clemens, the chief USF spokesman, were listening to the overview from the first dazzling smile to the last word. Both were professionals, both worked with the news, sensationalism, and scandals, and both remembered that the JBC was an influential network, which meant that Patrick McCaffrey was an important persona. Of course, in the opinion of the head of the _Spiegel_, he was an amateur compared to Gunther Voss.

On Post 13, immured into the rocky surface of the Tartarus Plateau, people were also stuck to their receiver. Suffering from the stuffiness and the heat, Sviridov, Demeskis, and Durant were catching Patrick McCaffrey's voice through the crackle of interference, and they were gripped by the feeling of involvement in the great and unprecedented events. All three of them were young, which meant that the coming times were their era, and the new world that would rise on Earth after the Arrival was their world. Sviridov thought that he would, most likely, live for at least three hundred years, and he would bet everything that Durant and Demeskis were pondering the same topic. The genie, released from the bottle by the aliens into the human society, seemed very seductive.

Juan Arego, the miner from Outpost 13044, partook in the news at the bar, between the second and fourth mugs of beer. Then, pulling on his EVA suit, he headed for the mine to work off his shift. During a break, which was required every forty minutes, Arego brought Sydney Birk, his partner, up to date. He, however, remained indifferent to the aliens' good deeds and merely muttered, "Screw them, Juanito! There's no such thing as a free lunch, and, besides, we won't get a damn thing. Those goddamn capitalists will grab it all up!" Juan Arego thought for a moment and decided that his partner was right.

Lieutenant Stig Olsen, commander of the fourth marine team attached to the cruiser _Asahi_, was not listening to McCaffrey's overview, as he was wandering with his people through the Hindu Kush, on the borders of Afghanistan and Pakistan, in the most outlaw, villainous areas. A day earlier, a pod from a Lunar shuttle, piloted by an inexperienced cadet, had missed the landing on the astrodrome near Türkmenabat and ended up in these damned mountains. There was an instructor with the cadet named Serov, a decorated marine, but way past his prime; according to the message from the craft, something had happened to him during the flight: either a heart attack or a stroke. The pilot, apparently, attempted to render him aid, but had lost control, and, as a result, both ejected. Olsen found the crashed pod and now, along with the other teams and with the support from aerial reconnaissance, was scouring the gorges and mountain slopes. A day later, he would stumble onto the Tigers of Islam and the bodies of Serov and the cadet, drawn and quartered, with pierced eyes and flayed skin, then get enraged and order the captured terrorists be bludgeoned to death with rifle butts. For that, he would be court-martialed upon returning to the Singapore base.

Evening was approaching in Singapore, and life on the USF base, behind the triple row of wire and laser fences, was coming to a standstill. Besides the purely military function, the base was intended for marine rest and health restoration, so the most impressive structure here was the hospital unit. It was surrounded by palm trees, pools, flowering shrubs, and two-story bungalows with balconies, large windows, and air conditioners, who fought an unsuccessful battle against the daytime heat, but promised a ghost of coolness closer to nighttime. Behind the spa complex were the barracks, equipment hangars, landing pads, the headquarters building, and several buildings for officers. In one of them, in a tiny apartment, still hot from the daytime heat, a man lay on the couch, known under the name Roy Bunch, a special assignment officer.

However, he was not really a man, although, being in a human body, experienced all the required sensations. At the moment, they were the stuffiness and the heat; the climate of Singapore did not facilitate productive thoughts.

Getting up, Bunch dropped his uniform jacket, pants, and boots, approached the door, and spoke into the answering machine's microphone.

"I went to the city for the night. For entertainment."

Then, stepping into the hallway, he stretched his arms along his body, froze, and, a second later, vanished.

He reappeared thousands of kilometers from Singapore, in Brussels, in a home beyond the Maasdam Canal. It was summer afternoon here, but, behind the concrete walls and the wooden paneling, it was cool. Sighing in relief, Bunch stuck his feet into slippers, put on a robe, and, stepping to the computer desk, sat down in the chair. His features and figure changed; he no longer looked as tall and powerfully-built as the special assignment officer, his body becoming drier, his face becoming older, even his hair becoming lighter, turning blonde instead of brown. While this metamorphosis was happening, the former Bunch sat still, staring at the empty computer screen. The desk in front of him was covered by stacks of disks, notebooks, books, reference guides, voice recorders, and the last several issues of the _CosmoSpiegel_, but he did not appear to intend to work. In this spacious old home, he could think much better than in that Singaporean sauna.

He felt good; he was not mistaken in selecting his chosen one. He'd spent many, many years studying humans, these fussy creatures, their past and future, their motivations, desires, dreams, and that which they called their mind and spiritual essence. Now he learned to understand them and correctly predict the reactions of their social structures, even specific individuals. A stubborn but promising race! If they got access to new technology, someone would have to make room... Perhaps the Llyano, but the Bino Faata most definitely...

But he shouldn't overestimate them. No, definitely shouldn't! Just take the captive... He felt him as a cluster of feelings and thoughts, like a shadow looming millions of kilometers away, where he could only reach with great effort. The captive had figured out how to use the kaff, slipped away to freedom, and even managed to communicate with the Ship. But that was it! His psychic potential was negligible, there was nothing that could be done with that ancestral heritage, but if he lacked innate talent, it was necessary to use his brains. His mind, unfortunately, was not flexible, and his character independent: too proud, stubborn, not imagining humans as symbiotes. And he could have taken control over the situation... so simple, so easy!

Then the mind that had only recently been called Roy Bunch, thought that humans had plenty of time to get smart; of course, only if the aliens did not incinerate them. A few thousand years, and the whole galaxy would recognize them as fully sentient... But, for now, the goal of the humans was not very complicated: merely to survive. The escapee had an even simpler one: to survive until the Ship got close to Earth. The distance at which he could teleport large objects was four to five times the diameter of Earth, and he was unable to reach the Ship from the planet.

For all their imperfections, he liked humans. He understood that their virtues stemmed from their flaws: for example, stubbornness and pride were the sources of bravery, which, in turn, bore self-sacrifice. The idea of self-sacrifice was foreign to his people, and while he could understand it with his mind, he could not accept it on an emotional level. Life was too precious to cut its thread, which reached for twenty thousand years... Besides, he could always put someone else's life instead of his own.

He already knew how he would do it. Standing up, he descended into the basement, to his hiding place, checked the readiness of the necessary device, then came back up, selected a suit, shirt, tie, appropriate for a diplomat, and changed. His skin darkened, the hair became black and curly, the face altered: full lips, slightly flat nose, dark eyes with swollen eyelids. Looking himself over in the mirror, he nodded contentedly: the suit fit perfectly.

… The time in New York was close to 10 AM, when Umkhonto Tlume, the representative of the Free Zulu Territory appeared out of a bathroom at the UN building. The hallway was quiet and deserted. He quickly crossed it, came out to the elevators, and went down. Five minutes later, Tlume was walking towards the Security Council conference room, looking at today's agenda on the way. The first item on it stated "The expansion of the military presence of the EAU in the Middle East, specifically in Syria."


	15. Chapter 14

_This is a fan translation of _Invasion_ (Вторжение) by Mikhail Akhmanov, currently only available in Russian and, because of the author's passing in 2019, unlikely to ever be published in English. This is the first book in a six-book series called _Arrivals from the Dark_ (Пришедшие из мрака), which also has a six-book spin-off series called _Trevelyan's Mission_ (Миссия Тревельяна)._

_I claim no rights to the contents herein._

* * *

**Chapter 14**

Between the orbits of Mars and Earth

"Abby," Litvin was explaining, "Abby McNeil, the Earth woman... I need to go after her."

"Why? Is she your tuahha partner?"

"What tuahha? I already told you that we don't have a mating season. During maturity, we are always ready, and that lasts for forty years, sometimes longer. We also don't have ksa, our women give birth whenever they want... almost always. Exceptions are rare."

"But she is your partner?" Yo insisted. "A sexual partner, as your people say?"

"No. Relationships between humans are very diverse and are not confined to sex. McNeil is my comrade-in-arms and my subordinate officer. I am responsible for her. I cannot leave her without help. I need to..."

Their conversation had been going on, with mixed success, for over an hour. They had not yet discussed how to rescue Abby McNeil, as they got stuck on a different issue: why this was necessary in the first place. That was a problem that Yo could not understand, who could not image the breadth of connections between humans, and her attempts at understanding the situation were still without success. All was aggravated by the fact that Yo was not thinking as well as during their past meetings. As the Ship had explained, it was a side effect of tuahha. The increased excitability clouded the mind, and, when the Faata created the caste of breeders and switched to planned reproduction, the mating season had been excluded from social life. This happened two millennia ago.

As far as Litvin could learn, in that era, at the very beginning of the Third Phase, a mutation had appeared that sharply increased the number of people with the psychic gift, although, among the rest of the population, there was no more than one percent. After a short but fierce struggle between the mutants, a leader appeared, the first Pillar of Order, who seized power. Under his rule, the Faata expected a series of radical changes: the stratification of society by psychic ability and the breeding of t'ho: from the almost-sentients to the annexes of quasi-living mechanisms. The slogan of the new era was first stability, then space expansion, in which they saw the guarantee of that same continuity of civilization. Apparently, the Faata were haunted by the genetic terror of the Eclipses; they, having lived through two cataclysms, wanted to build an indestructible empire, spreading it to the farthest stars. Technology-wise, they had the capability, but there were limitations: the population growth had slowed down, and the psychic gift did not always pass to the offspring. On average, only a quarter of the ksa females, fertilized by the sperm of the fully sentient, produced offspring with the dominant mutation; as for their women, they were sterile. But they lived long lives, supporting their bodily vigor with special procedures.

"Leave this ksa," Yo said. "You said that they sent guards to the t'hami halls... If you go there, they will kill you..." She sighed and added, "Then they will kill me."

"Are you afraid to die?" Litvin asked.

"I was not before. Before, life was almost indistinguishable from eternal oblivion or the slumber in t'hami. But now... now I would like to live all the cycles remaining to me. Perhaps not long, but next to you." Yo put her hand on Litvin's chest, and her eyes clouded. "Two moons in your eyes, their light on your face... I wish to see this light for a little longer."

_Before..._ he thought. He knew little about Yo's life from before; he knew that she'd been born in the New Worlds and had lived there for fourteen years, if counting her age using Earth years. Perhaps, the Bino Faata matured at a younger age than humans, or their development was accelerated artificially, but either way, she was an adult woman. It was also possible that the early maturity was related to the small lifespan of the t'ho, but Litvin was afraid to ask about that. Death came to all, but the knowledge of its time was bitter... Doubly bitter if talking about one's loved ones.

He sighed, put the kaff to his temple, and started putting on the suit.

"Still, I'll go. I can't leave her. The Ship will help me."

"It cannot help you with what has already happened," Yo said, turning away. Her shoulders sagged, and her voice became like earlier; almost lacking in emotion. _Is her tuahha ending?.._ Litvin thought and asked, "What happened? What are you talking about?"

"Iveh... He did not take her to sleep in t'hami. She..." Yo raised her head and looked into his face. "She is not infertile like me, she is a ksa. And, like all ksa, already carries the embryo of life. Iveh said that the crossbreeding was successful, and that the fetus was developing with the same speed as in our females. Very quickly. This hybrid will become the first of the new partly sentient breed, and if..."

Litvin clenched his fists. Cold shivers ran down his back.

"Are you saying that she was inseminated? Artificially?" he forced out.

"Yes. One of Iveh's experiments with humans. In the cavity with the females, there is a special type of radiation speeding up the development of the embryos. The biological stimulation field... It is stronger now, and the t'ho generation will be born in thirty or forty cycles, by the time of the conquest of your system. Workers, olks, pilots... females to continue our species... probably several full sentients... Then the experiments with your women will continue. Iveh believed that he would be able to create a hybrid race."

"Like breeding cattle..." Litvin muttered through gritted teeth, immediately calling out to the quasi-mind. _Ship! Is she correct? Is that all true?_

_Yes,_ came the silent reply. Then, picking up on his next thought, the Ship added, _It is impossible to interrupt the pregnancy. Most likely, the human ksa will die._

"But if I she is removed from t'hami, she will not die?"

_No, but the gestation process will return to its natural course and slow down. Three months instead of two weeks._

"Wait for me here," Litvin told Yo, got to his feet, and exited the module into the hallway. He stood near the membrane, holding his temples with his hands; his head was ringing, the kaff dug into his skull like a red-hot drill. Hatred raged inside him, but not towards extraterrestrials in general, not to the alien race that had invaded humanity's celestial abode. Could he hate Yo? Could he imagine that the olks, mindless slaves, were worthy of hate? The Bino Faata, like humans, were not an amorphous throng of villains, but a highly civilized society, where some decided, and others obeyed. Those who decided ruled through force, and, where that wasn't enough, resorted to deception; thus, Iveh, who spoke of trust, was most definitely a liar. If someone needed to be hated, it was that vivisector; but was he alone? Iveh had experimented on Richard and Abby, without bothering to ask if they liked it or not, but the same was done by human rulers, who burned those who thought differently in ovens, poisoned them with gas, destroyed entire peoples, countries, cities. This bloody orgy had lasted for centuries, millennia even, and he, Pavel Litvin, was duty-bound to be involved in it. Each race, humanity or the Faata, had its own habits, its own peculiarities, but they were probably united in one thing: neither could care less about the life and wishes of their fellow being.

Litvin slowly moved down the hallway to the transport alcove, then stopped again. The conversations with Yo and thoughts about what had happened to Abby were distracting him from the main thing: what was happening right that moment in the cold emptiness, under light of the stars and the faraway Sun. He froze, peering into the endless row of membranes stretching along the deck and feeling the strengthening of his mental connection to the Ship.

_The situation outside?_

_Unchanged._

There were indeed no changes: nine human cruisers surrounded the Ship, two more and the Admiral's frigate hung in front of it like warriors blocking the enemy's path. The "Ring" formation, red alert, full battle readiness... Over the past day, Litvin was examining the flotilla using the Ship's eyes for the tenth time, attempting to recognize his own ships by their outlines, the number of turrets, long-range antennae, and hatches for dropping UFs. The frigate _Suzdal_, obviously, with the _Viking_ and the _Volga_ with her, the twins from the _Pamir_'s squadron; two more _Barracuda_-class heavy cruisers, one of them definitely the _Pamir_, her silver hull bearing the image of a mountain peak in the clouds. The third cruiser was newer and larger, probably the _Sakhalin_, and with her was a squadron of four combat units: _Sydney_, _Fuji_, _Tiburon_, and _Neva_. He thought he recognized the other cruisers of the Third Fleet, and his memory instantly brought back the familiar faces of those with whom he had served and trained, met on the Lunar Base, on Mars, Earth, and in the Asteroid Belt. Many, many worthy people! If they only knew where Pavel Litvin was now, they'd be very surprised...

His eyes focused on the heavy cruiser he could not yet identify. Closer, still closer, he ordered the Ship. It obediently shifted the image; now the dimly glittering hull of the cruiser blistered with the protrusions of turrets and hatches, the smooth mirror of the armor reflected the stars and the blinding spot of the Sun. Similar to the _Pamir _and the _Barracuda_, Litvin thought, and then he noticed the picture on the bow plating. A white rose... The _Lancaster_ then [The white rose was the symbol of the House of Lancaster during the War of the Roses in 15th century Britain.]. The cruiser carried the symbol of an ancient war, which had ended over six centuries ago.

_How are the negotiations coming?_ Litvin asked inaudibly, stepping to the transport alcove.

_Ineffectually,_ the Ship replied.

He should not have expected anything else. If the Third Fleet had come here, it was not to provide the aliens with an honorary escort. A lieutenant, even a commander, could not read the mind of an admiral, but Litvin had no doubts about the instructions Timokhin had received and the fact that the Admiral would carry them out. Perhaps he would be more successful than B.J. Cassidy, the _Lark_'s captain, but it was also possible that the result would be the same.

Sighing, Litvin stepped into the pod. The vision of the cruisers frozen in space disappeared, the diagram of transportation lines flared to life in front of him, overlaying the already familiar image of the Ship's nervous system. One of the images he saw with his own eyes, the other, from the visual sensors, was appearing directly in his brain's visual center: two webs woven by a giant quasi-sentient spider. There was something curious about them, something that, Litvin thought, should have been noticed and, perhaps, used, but his mind already switched to something else. Peering into the diagram, he ordered, "Here, to this t'hami hall. Is it being guarded?"

_All tiers are under observation,_ the Ship informed him, displaying long hallways with transparent walls, figures of beings frozen in catalepsy, and guards, almost as motionless as the sleeping Faata. They stood in group of three or four, with impassive faces, weapons in their hands; the play of shadows and the light made their powerful muscles look even more striking.

"To hell with these imbeciles! Remove them," Litvin growled, and the two overlaid webs once again appeared in front of him. The pod rocked and slid down the dark tunnel, among anthracite walls. He sat down on the floor, lowered the helmet visor, checked the cartridges with the breathing mixture. His plans regarding McNeil were still vague: he could repeat the first time, make a hole in a partition and flood the hallways with the sleeping gas, or set up a different diversion and drag his target away during the confusion. To be honest, Litvin did not know yet if he would undertake a frontal assault or go around, and relied more on his luck. He had to get Abby out, he had to! And do it before the Third Fleet attacked the aliens. No matter which way the battle would go, it would be safer to be in an autonomous module. Maybe they would even manage to leave the Ship... Most likely, if he could only control this damned module!

Litvin stared at the transport diagram: the light of his pod crawled along the line representing the tunnel, and something else flickered nearby, some sort of artery of the Ship, stretching in the same direction, directly to the t'hami tier. Then it branched out, splitting into a cluster of other, smaller arteries, and, at the point of branching, a spot darkened, looking like an inkblot. Suddenly he realized that he wasn't seeing all this with his eyes but in his head, like the other lines and centers of the Ship's nervous system. It looked like many of them were located near the transport lines and gravity shafts, and there were probably some passages, a secret network of hallways that allowed one to secretly get to any part of the Ship. As soon as he realized this, Litvin jumped to his feet and shouted, "Stop!"

The pod halted. Now it was hanging about halfway between the battle module hangar and its final destination, the hall where the ksa slept.

He stretched out his left hand and clenched his fingers in a fist. A slicing strand slipped out of the small disk on his glove with a quiet rustle. Litvin felt around the transparent dome covering the pod; its material slightly flexed under his fingers and was, obviously, no stronger than the partitions in the t'hami halls. Then his left arm made a circle, and he pushed away the cut out piece with a slight movement. There was now the tunnel wall in front of him: coal-black, slightly gleaming in the weak lighting coming from the pod. Would he be able to cut through that as well?

The whip shuddered, raised up, and, at that moment, the Ship's disembodied voice warned, _Do not do that._

"There is another passage," Litvin replied. "I don't have to cut the wall if you tell me how to get there."

_Why?_

"To get to the ksa cavity and retrieve the human woman. So that the guards don't notice."

Silence. It seemed that the quasi-mind controlling the Ship was processing his words.

After several seconds, Litvin raised his hand again.

_There are other means,_ a Ship's thought came immediately. _There is no need to cut open the wall. That could damage the communication channel between functional centers._

It was afraid! Catching that emotion, Litvin started and, afraid to give away his triumph, clenched his fists even tighter. The prospect of a battle with Earth's fleets, even with a whole planet, did not scare the Ship, but it was vulnerable here. Here, in this place, where, behind the black wall, stretched one of the nerve fibers. Should he cut it?

_The tissue will be restored,_ the Ship hurriedly informed him. _High regeneration capability._ Then he added, _Another option is offered again._

"Which one?"

The human ksa will be delivered into the module cavity.

_Interesting!_ Litvin thought. "Who will deliver her?"

_Olks,_ the answer came immediately.

"You can control them?"

_To an extent. When they are connected via the bio-interface._

"This is new information. If I had received it earlier, we could have reached an agreement and cooperated more productively. You could have stopped the guards who attacked me and were destroyed."

_No. The execution of any command is determined by its potential. Currently, it is significantly higher than before._

"Because of my threat?"

Silent agreement.

Litvin put away the whip and once again sat down on the floor, next to the Achilles heel that was so suddenly revealed. All that remained was to check which benefits his find promised to bring him.

"Can you control the fully sentient? Iveh, Yata, and the other assholes from your cesspool?"

_No._

"Really? What if..." The end of the whip again started dancing in the air.

_No. No! The fully sentient do not require psychic amplifiers. It is impossible to control without an interface._

"But I have one." Litvin touched his kaff. "So, you can order me around?"

_This is a special interface that does not allow influencing the wearer's mind._

Litvin smiled pleasantly. Whoever had made his kaff, the Daskins or other handymen from the depths of the galaxy, the thing was built well and equipped with pleasant surprises. Most likely, he did not know how to use it to the fullest potential.

"Ship!"

_I listen._

"An order to all olks, except those helping with the human woman: grab all fully sentients and isolate them in one of the holds. Any one, your choice. Execute!"

A pause, then, _Unable to execute command._

"Potential too low?" Litvin said aloud. "Well, let me add some!"

He slashed the strand against the black wall. The whip cut deep, almost to its full length, and he was almost immediately drowned by a wave of unbearable pain. Crying out, he raised the helmet visor, ripped the kaff off his temple and spent the next several minutes sitting, taking deep breaths of the warm air, and senselessly staring at the wall. Enormous drops of thick crimson fluid oozed through the cut and, merging into a stream, dropped to the floor, as if he'd cut a titan's vein, causing it to bleed out. But, gradually, the bloody drops appeared less frequently, the trickle of fluid grew thinner, and, by the time Litvin came to, the wound had probably closed. Picking up the interface marble, he attached it to its place. There was no pain.

_Which of us has been taught a lesson, it or me?_ Litvin thought. Some truth began to dawn in his consciousness: he seemed to start to understand what the Ship feared. Damage to the communication channels between functional centers? One could say that, but in the human language this was called differently: pain, suffering, anguish.

_The human ksa has been delivered to the module cavity,_ the disembodied voice echoed.

"Run the pod back," Litvin instructed. "And what about the fully sentient? Maybe you will grab them yourself? Or maybe convince the olks?"

_Unable to execute command,_ the reply came. Then, after a pause, _Pain… no more pain… need other emotions… anger, sense of power, joy, passion…_

"I wouldn't say no to joy, but there are no reasons for it," Litvin said, sighing. He had learned the lesson; he knew that he could burn the Ship or vaporize it, kill it in a thousand ways, but not torture. He was terrible at that.

The pod stopped, he came out onto the deck and immediately saw McNeil. Naked, helpless, she was lying on her back, and because of that her belly looked even larger; bloated like a drum, it drooped over her hips like something alien and completely unnecessary to Abby. Litvin took her in his arms, passed through the membrane, and set her down next to Yo, who was sitting motionlessly.

"You did it," she said, touching the combat suit's shoulderpad. "You did! How?"

"I told you the Ship would help me. Well, it did…" Litvin pressed his fingers to the girl's wrist. McNeil's pulse was steady and strong, but strangely frequent, at least a hundred beats per minute. "While she's sleeping, we should get her some clothes, like the ones you're wearing. Would you find them, sweetie?"

Yo nodded, likely having picked up the gesture from Litvin. The kaff on her temple flared, a section of the wall shifted to the side, and a tube from the container with the nourishing liquid slipped into her palm. She began to bustle about McNeil, making the girl more comfortable, rubbing her hair and cheek; then she touched the tube's nipple to a vein in the crook of her elbow. Food and biostimulants, Litvin recalled. The injection was probably a necessary step of the awakening process.

He stared at Abby and thought about what he would say when she awoke, how he would explain… What could one say to a woman whose womb had been turned into a lab experiment? Who was carrying an alien fetus, and whose child, as yet unborn, had already been counted among the slave caste? The truth seemed too harsh, and Litvin, remembering Corcoran, nodded slightly. McNeil would not find out the truth until the baby was born. Perhaps, she would never find out; their chances of survival were slim.

Lowering his eyelids, he looked around with the aid of external video sensors. Outside, everything remained unchanged: the _Lancaster_, the _Pamir_, the _Sakhalin_, and six other cruisers floated around the monstrous cylinder, the _Suzdal_ with her escort floated dead ahead, a hundred kilometers away. Missile strike range, Litvin thought. The Ship's shield had deflected the swarm volleys, but what would happen with missiles coming from all directions? The first salvo would probably have a hundred and fifty of them, adding up to triple that after the first minute of fighting… Would that be enough? And what would be better for them, for him, for Yo and Abby: to die along with the Ship or survive? But at what cost?

He was still resolving this dilemma, when Yo stood up and disappeared behind the entrance partition. Watching her leave, Litvin called out, "Ship! You said you could only influence olks via the bio-interface… What about the other t'ho? Are they not controlled by you?"

_The influence applies to all semisentients. Their brains lack proper defenses. They are unable to distinguish an external mental signal from their own and resist._

"So that means you can implant any idea into their minds?"

_Any idea that does not contradict the orders of the Sheaf or any other full sentient._

"Does that apply to Yo as well?"

A moment's hesitation, an instant of indecision. Then, _Yes._

"Yo is very fond of me. Have you noticed?"

_That can be clearly explained by the tuahha._

"Her tuahha period is ending, but the fondness remains. And I recall that, during out previous encounters, she behaved completely differently from Yegg, the second translator. Let's say, friendlier." Pausing for a few seconds, Litvin asked, "Did you program her?"

_The term is imprecise. This t'ho is naturally gifted with imagination, curiosity, and increased excitability. In a way, she is a relic of the past eras, standing on the brink of being bred out. All that was necessary was to awaken these and other qualities._

"Other? Which ones exactly?"

Another echo of doubt, as if Litvin's companion was afraid to reveal more information than necessary. Then the silent words reached him.

_Pity. Yes, in the system of human concepts, these feelings are called "compassion" and "pity". She retained this ability._

"Compassion is the first step towards love," Litvin said ponderously. "But you, why did you do it? Why awaken sympathy in her?"

His voice rumbled like thunder in the small cabin but did not drown out the reply.

_Emotions,_ the Ship explained, emotions. _They are clearer and stronger in humans than in the Faata._

"So what? Are emotions that important?"

_There is nothing more important. Emotions are the source of pleasure._

_So much for being quasi-sentient!_ a thought passed through Litvin's head. _It feels pain and longs for pleasant sensations…_ It was a strange beastie the Daskins had created to surprise all the other starfaring races! It was not a computer, definitely not a computer… What then? A living toy? A partner capable of empathy, an amplifier of joys and sorrows? A medical device for curing neurosis? Or all of the above?

Yo silently appeared at the entrance, interrupting his thoughts. She sat, smoothed out the coveralls she'd brought on her knees, the same chrysolite hue as her own, apparently picking it out to match McNeil's red hair. She stretched out her hand, touched the girl's neck, and froze, closing her silver eyes.

"She will awaken soon. I sense the beating of two hearts, hers and the child's. The rhythm is already normal, and that means that they have exited the accelerated phase."

"The acceleration of what?"

"Vital processes."

Litvin nodded and started removing of his suit. Then he headed for the forward narrow section of the compartment, where the walls converged to the hemispherical screen, stood near the contact film, thinking of the crushing power of the weapon right under his feet, about the chamber coiled by a spiral. An annihilator! If only he could control it!.. Beyond the hangar, at the very center of the Ship's structure, lay the cavity of the hyperlight drive, an enormous shaft three to four kilometers in length. If he could get there and incinerate the converter… But, perhaps the word "incinerate" would not do here; the stream of antimatter would create a much stronger effect than plasma, lasers, or nuclear missiles. More than likely, if he fired the annihilator at the drives, the Ship would turn to dust…

Touching the film, quietly rustling under his fingers, Litvin pulled on his jumpsuit zipper, about to perform yet another experiment, but then he was called by Yo.

"Come here! She is about to wake up."

McNeil's eyelids lifted. She stared at Litvin blankly for a minute or two, then, recognizing him, muttered, "Paul! Is that you, Paul? Where's Richard? What happened to him?"

He squeezed her hand.

"Be brave, Abby… Richard is gone."

The girl's blond eyebrows arched, her face contorting into a pained grimace.

"No more Richard… I remember… he was dying, and we didn't know how to help him… And that damned machine… their computer… said that his respiratory centers were paralyzed…" She turned her head, examining the narrow compartment, then touched her chest and abdomen with her hand. Her eyes went wide. "Paul! Where are we, Paul? Why am I naked? And this… this…" McNeil's hand was on her belly. "Where did this come from?"

"Don't worry, I will explain everything," Litvin said hurriedly. "This is not the compartment where they put us, I got out of there, and you… they took you away even earlier. You were pregnant… I mean, hell, you're still pregnant and are carrying Corcoran's child. They… the ones who captured us… in short, they put you in some kind of field that accelerates your vital processes. I think they wanted to observe the development of the fetus… It hasn't even been two weeks, and you're already at the six-month mark." He swallowed and added, "Richard would have been happy. You and him… you…"

McNeil frowned, contemplating her belly.

"We used protection. You know the rules and saw the USF contact for female marines. I signed it… not to give birth for five years…"

"Then you didn't use enough protection. Anyway, it's a moot point now… Maybe it's for the best; you'll have a son or a daughter, which means a part of Richard will live on. Understand?"

She nodded obediently.

"I understand, but not everything. Where are my clothes?"

"Here they are. Yo will help you."

"Yo?"

"A Faata woman. Our friend. She speaks English."

Litvin turned to face the wall. Fabric rustled behind him, McNeil gasped, standing up, muttered something through gritted teeth, then came Yo's voice, "Fasten here. No, not like that… just connect the edges of the cut." Finally they quieted, and he turned his head. McNeil, already clothed, stood, supporting herself on Yo's shoulder and holding her belly with both hands.

"She's sweet. And she smells nice." Abby took a deep breath and carefully lowered herself to the floor. "I'm fine, sir… fine, as much as it's possible to be under these circumstances… I'm a marine and I remember that, so you can tell me everything." McNeil put her hand on her belly and winced. "I guess, things are pretty bad?"

"Bad, but not hopeless," Litvin noted. "We are, obviously, on the run, but we have an ally… no, not Yo and not even a person, just a very important individual. In any case, we can rely on it, on it and the Third Fleet."

Sitting down next to Abby, he started to talk.

Based on the timer on the cuff of his jumpsuit, almost two hours had passed. McNeil was tired and fell asleep, Litvin and Yo sat on the soft floor, immersed in silence. The light in the compartment dimmed, and the escapees were veiled in a resounding, viscous silence, the small sphere in the woman's hair faded; apparently, she had nothing to ask the Ship. It seemed that the silence and the stillness spread far and wide throughout the whole enormous vessel and beyond it, to the Sun, the planet, and the distant stars, but it was only an illusion of calm. The night sky was no longer a source of dreams and serene beauty, and every look at its vastness could reflect questions: who else would come from this abyss?.. When?..For what purpose?..

Yo's thin fingers slipped into Litvin's palm.

"When this is over and if we stay alive," he whispered, "will you agree to stay on Earth?"

"No matter how this ends, I will stay, alive or dead," she answered. "T'ho will not return to the New Worlds, t'ho will live out their lives here and die on your planet. When their time comes."

"When exactly?.." Litvin wanted to ask, but was afraid to and instead started to tell Yo about the quiet Smolensk, slumbering on the banks of the Dnieper, about the old fortress with brick towers and battlements, about the cathedral that stood over the steep slope down to the river, about the blooming apple trees and the lilac bushes, the scent of which enveloped the city streets in spring. Yo listened, her eyes glistening, and something like a clumsy smile appeared on her lips.

"Smo-lensk…" she spoke slowly. "Smolensk is a city? Many houses in one place?"

"A city," Litvin confirmed. "Streets, squares, houses, people live in some and work, learn, play in others. Bridges over the river, a wharf by the bank, and you can get on a ship and sail away to another city, to Orsha, Mogilev, and even Kiev. Do you have cities?"

"No. We did once, during the First and Second Phases. Not anymore."

"Why not?"

"If there are no cities, then there is nothing to destroy. Population centers were the first victims of the Eclipses."

"Where do you live then?"

"The fully sentient live aboard orbital stations, just as large as this Ship, and the t'ho…" the sphere of the kaff lit up, "t'ho live in barracks. Yes, barracks is the most appropriate term. There are…"

The module shuddered noticeably, and Yo froze, her mouth open. It shook again. McNeil tossed and turned, opened her eyes, got up on her elbow.

"What?.."

"They probably started a fight with the Third Fleet," Litvin said hoarsely, staring at the wall. "Ship, explain! What is happening?"

_Battle modules are being jettisoned._

"Like ours?"

_No, larger and more powerful. They are launching from the outer hull._

The wall in front of him melted away. He once again saw the nine human cruisers, surrounding the Ship in a circle, and the angular craft rising up from its surface. Ten, twenty, thirty… He lost count. These Faata machines also looked like a box with a cut-off corner, but they were significantly larger than the module they were hiding in. He thought that they were as long as the _Sakhalin_, the most powerful cruiser of the Third Fleet, but had a much bigger cross-section. This swarm of flying jerrycans would have looked ridiculous, if not for the vision of the annihilator that was present in his memory.

The battle modules split into two fans in the sectors of space above and below the ecliptic. The ring of the human ships, surrounding the alien, suddenly started moving, spinning, dropping long fiery jets; the engine exhaust reached for the stars, eclipsing their radiance. This carousel rapidly gained speed, and, through the perceptive eyes of the video sensors, Litvin saw turrets rotating, barrels of plasma throwers and swarms quivering, metal gleaming in the dark channels of missile tubes. Perhaps a second passed, and a flock of silver darts separated from the _Sakhalin_'s hull and dashed out into the darkness. Continuing to rotate, the _Pamir_ and the _Lancaster_ launched missiles, followed by the _Sydney_, the _Fuji_, and the other cruisers. One volley, two, three… They were firing at the alien Ship, not at the modules, and the target was so large that the shots simply could not miss.

"Paul" Abby shouted. "What do you see, Paul?"

"Our death," he answered and squeezed Yo's hand even tighter.

Hatches opened to launch fighters. A cloud of Vultures and Kites, seeming shapeless at first, threw out four tips. They crashed into the enemy lines, and hundreds of scarlet and violet flashes appeared in the darkness: they were firing lasers and swarms. Then a wide scarlet tongue licked away three fighters, reached for the stern of the _Sydney_, and the cruiser disappeared in a fountain of flames. The scattered debris or, possibly, the UF weapons hit the Faata module, but it didn't explode, instead breaking into pieces as if sliced by an invisible blade. Three other machines, breaking through a Kite screen, attacked the _Lancaster_. The darkness once again retreated from the crimson streams of fire, they converged on the cruiser, at the very middle, but an instant before that, the _Lancaster_, like a mortally wounded animal, managed to fire her plasma cannons. Wherever the plasma and antimatter streams crossed, a blinding star flared, then her fusion reactor blew. An incandescent nebula appeared where there had once been the cruiser and the battle modules, its edges wildly spinning, stretching out into space with crooked orange fingers, almost as if it was trying to rip the darkness into pieces.

Looking at this picture of universal apocalypse with hundreds of eyes, horrified, afraid, and triumphant, Litvin in some corner of his consciousness counted down the remaining time. It ran down with frightening speed; he knew that, at the range of a hundred kilometers, the missile volley would reach the Ship in twenty-six seconds and, most likely, rip it to pieces. For a medium-sized asteroid, that would have been enough, but if the starship survived the initial strike, it would be followed by a second and a third. It didn't look like the Ship's arsenal had interceptors, and the force shield would scarcely be able to handle the attack. Nearly five hundred missiles, a hundred and forty thousand megaton… He tried to imagine what would happen to the Ship, but his imagination failed him. Then again, there was no reason to strain it; death would be instantaneous, and Lieutenant Commander Litvin was prepared for it.

He had time to notice the _Pamir_, spewing plasma jets, colliding with a Faata module, a UF wing burning in a crimson blast of an annihilator, the _Suzdal_, the _Viking_, and the _Volga_ rushing into battle, their fighters flanking the enemy in the X formation.

Then the floor under his feet shuddered and, along with the walls, began to rock up and down, side to side, as if the Ship had turned into an ancient sailing ship, a toy in the hands of a storm. Litvin no longer saw the battle, did not see the dark angular modules and the maneuvering cruisers, the exhaust of their engines and the tiny gnats that were fighters; furious light blinded him, and, for a moment, he thought that the Ship was suddenly at the center of a new star. He heard the women's frightened cries and groaned himself, unable to rid himself of the scary glow burning his brain. _This is the end! The missiles have struck!.._ he thought, but his agony went on and on, and neither the Ship nor his body was turning to ash. He was still in this world and not in hell; the shaking, the monstrous fire, Yo and Abby's sighs, but that was all…

"Ship!" Litvin called out. "By the galaxy, what is happening?"

_The defense shield is active. It is absorbing the nuclear fission energy._

"A hundred and forty thousand metagon?!"

_One hundred and thirty-eight point six,_ the Ship informed him dryly, and, at that moment, the glow went away, and the vibration stopped.

But Litvin did not see the majority of the cruisers and fighters of the Third Fleet. Instead of the Admiral's frigate and the _Volga_ and the _Viking_ covering her, there was now an identical iridescent cloud as the one that had swallowed up the _Lancaster_; the _Sakhalin_, the _Neva_, and the _Fuji_ were gone, and with them, the Vultures and the Kites; all that remained of the fearsome carousel of powerful machines, spinning around the Ship, was rarefied gas. Three dozen Faata battle modules hung in space, licking away occasional gnat-fighters with their scarlet tongues, and behind that screen the last of the cruisers was rushing towards the Ship; maybe the _Tiburon_ or the _Rhine_. Her weapons were silent. Covered by blackened armor, with melted turrets and hatches, she was going to ram the enemy, performing a hopeless attack, like a warrior of a broken army, refusing to accept defeat. Two modules lazily turned towards her, spat fire, and the darkness was lit up by yet another plasma cloud.

"They've destroyed the Third Fleet," Litvin said in a dead voice. "Twelve of our ships… thirteen, counting the _Lark_… Killed a hell of a lot of people…"

He dropped his boots and started pulling off his jumpsuit. His movements were deliberate, as if he was rehearsing some slow pantomime.

Abby moved in alarm.

"Paul! Are you okay, Paul? What are you going to do?"

"Entertain our hosts a little. Don't want them thinking we're completely helpless…" His bare feet slapping on the floor, he headed for the contact film. "Yo, my dear, leave! Take Abby, and go to the deck! Better yet, to the transport network or some quiet corner. At your discretion, honey."

"I am not go–"

"Abigail McNeil! Are you still a marine lieutenant?"

Anger showed through his voice. Yo silently helped McNeil get up, took her hand and led her to the entrance membrane. The kaff in her dark hair kept flaring up and dimming; she seemed to be asking the Ship something and would not get an answer.

They left, and Litvin, waiting another minute, climbed into the film's tight embrace. Somehow he knew, was certain, that this time he would be able to do it; the _Lancaster_ and the _Pamir_, vanishing in a crimson cloud, the _Lark_'s broken hull kept flashing before his eyes. His muscles fluttered, and something under his feet replied with a similar tremor. He willed away the vision of the gloomy space outside the Ship, which no longer had the human fleet, only filled by slowly-expanding crimson gas clouds. As if by itself, the screen turned on and transported him inside the enormous cylindrical hangar, a monstrous tube with modules hanging in it. It stretched for at least a kilometer in either direction, but the distance seemingly disappeared for Litvin; he could see each machine with crystal clarity.

The flutter below grew stronger; the annihilator was coming to life. Litvin did not attempt to reach the drive, it was useless to him, there was nowhere to run. Not anymore… And even if he could, he still would not flee. There was no honor in running away.

It seemed to him that, somewhere inside, in this strange machine or in his own body, a fireball was being born. He heated it with his own fury, nourished with resentment: they'd dealt with the fleet with such ease! The symbol of Earth's might had been turned to dust in the cold emptiness, and only he could avenge the defeat. That thought caused the burning sphere to heat up and expand, taking Litvin's flesh into itself, as if he was becoming a fiery genie, a dragon, or another kind of monster. He felt that he could no longer restrain this flame, this scorching heat, and needed to splash it out, directly in front of him, into the wall of the hangar dotted with hundreds of machines.

_Do not do that,_ the Ship warned, and Litvin thought that its disembodied voice was tinted with terror. _Do not!_

_Why not?_ he answered mentally. _I thought you liked strong emotions. Humans have a feeling sweeter than creative desire and happier than love. You are not yet familiar with it. It's called vengeance!_

A stream of crimson fire struck the wall, vaporizing a dozen modules. Terrible pain pierced Litvin, but, being prepared for it, he did not groan, did not yell out, but merely muttered through this teeth, "I promised you the sky covered in diamonds? Well, look! Look!"

He managed to fire two more times. Then he lost consciousness.


	16. Chapter 15

_This is a fan translation of _Invasion_ (Вторжение) by Mikhail Akhmanov, currently only available in Russian and, because of the author's passing in 2019, unlikely to ever be published in English. This is the first book in a six-book series called _Arrivals from the Dark_ (Пришедшие из мрака), which also has a six-book spin-off series called _Trevelyan's Mission_ (Миссия Тревельяна)._

_I claim no rights to the contents herein._

* * *

**Chapter 15**

In space and on Earth

The names of the ships disappeared on the tactical screen, one after another: _Sydney_, _Lancaster_, _Neva_… The _Sydney_ was the first among the dead; the Vultures were unable to stop an alien craft, and a stream of crimson fire struck the stern, directly at the reactor, protected by multiple layers of armor. However, it did not save the cruiser: a flash, an explosion, and an incandescent cloud of gas, fading away into the emptiness… Three of the aliens attacked the _Lancaster_, two went after the _Neva_; besides the numerical advantage, they also looked more maneuverable and faster than the ships of Earth. Not to mention their weapons! Watching the battle, Timokhin realized during the first few seconds that superiority was not on his side. These diabolical machines had turned out to be surprisingly dodgy and deadly, despite them lacking any missiles, plasma throwers, or even anything similar to a laser. Their only method of attack was a cluster of antiprotons, hitting the target from a long distance away and with deadly precision. Its energy and density, as the analysts reported, were so great that they caused the annihilation of the trace amounts of particles in vacuum.

Timokhin did not have any weapons equal in firepower, therefore he had to put his bets on the missiles. Main caliber, three hundred megaton, automatic target tracking and, just to be sure, three salvos... The flotilla had managed to launch everything before the skirmish with the alien ships, and all they had to do was wait, wait for the enormous starship to flare up in a nuclear fire. Its destruction would be a victory, just as sure as the deaths of Timokhin himself and a half of the Third Fleet; he understood already that the aliens could not be held off with the forces on hand. That had been his miscalculation, and he silently agreed that the payment for this mistake would be life. The Admiral's life and the lives of the people he had brought here, too confident in the might of his cruisers.

The _Lancaster_'s turrets spat fire, bright plasma lines crossed with the streams of antimatter, and the blinding light of the explosion made Timokhin squint.

"Three!" one of the officers said. "She took three down with her!"

"The _Neva_ is destroyed," another reported.

Timokhin furrowed his brow.

"UF losses?"

Commodore Shengelia replied, "Growing, sir. Seventeen percent... nineteen... twenty-three..."

"Eight seconds to missile impact," came an observer's voice.

_Eight whole seconds..._ Timokhin thought. _Space combat is quick, speeds are great, weapons destructive... A battle can be won in eight seconds. Or lost..._

The _Pamir_, a heavy cruiser with a crew of two hundred, disappeared in a flare of furious flame, after colliding with a Faata ship; the _Fuji_ became a dispersing cloud of gas, the dead _Paraná_ drifted in the darkness, breaking apart. The _Sakhalin_ continued to fight, firing lasers and swarms, and the _Tiburon_ and the _Rhine_ continued to hold their own in the upper sector of the celestial sphere, surrounded by a dozen alien ships. Timokhin realized that, a little longer, and he would lose these cruisers.

"We're attacking," he ordered. "The _Viking_ will go to the _Tiburon_, the _Suzdal_ and the _Volga_ to the _Sakhalin_. Launch fighters!"

"Done, sir. Machines are in space."

Acceleration pressed Timokhin into his seat, and, at that moment, the universe, writhing in pain and silent moans, bore a new star. Filters dimmed its light, turning it into a ghostly shadow, but it still remained frightening. Molten masses moved in its depths, swelled on the surface in monstrous scarlet humps, thinned into strands of prominence, throwing clumps of glowing plasma into the dark; it seemed as if the whole world, only recently similar to obsidian covered by rare sparks of stars, had suddenly turned into a fiery inferno.

"Target hit!" an observing officer yelled out.

The staff compartment momentarily exploded into a hum of triumphant voices, then silence fell. The star created by the nuclear explosion dimmed, the prominence and plasma waves settled, the energy dissipated in the void in swarms of rapid rays. The peripheral region no longer blinded the equipment and people's eyes, and through its transparent haze the sensors hit upon and transferred to the screen a vision of the enormous cylinder. Undamaged and undefeated, it hung in front of the _Suzdal_, like a dragon coming from the galactic abyss. Saint George would not slay this one.

"Sixteen degrees to the North Pole," an officer's voice came. "Enemy, two ships!"

"Attacking," the frigate's captain replied over the intercom, but this order went past Timokhin's consciousness. He was hearing something else now, which had been said by Gunther Voss, that strange reporter from the _Spiegel_, at the Chilean USF astrodrome. His words suddenly came back with amazing clarity, the kind that came to a person before death, "Do not use missiles or swarms, Admiral, the defense shield will deflect them. Try to cut it open with lasers, a sudden strike at full power. But beware..."

_Beware? Beware of what?.._ Timokhin thought, looking at the two snub-nosed ships growing on the screens. Then fire and darkness swallowed him.

"Let us never again see the darkness of an Eclipse!" Yata spoke. He said it out loud and was heard everywhere on the enormous Ship, in the hallways and in cavities where hundreds of Faata worked with their t'ho assistants, in the meal halls, in the t'hami compartments, where the crew was coming back to life, in the imitation wells with variable gravity, where olks were training, on the decks of battle modules, whose pilots were already coming out of their long slumber.

"Let us never again see the darkness of an Eclipse," the Pillar of Order repeated and added, "The Bino Tegari are destroyed. We are going to their planet." Saying that, he glanced at the observation sphere, at the center of which Earth continued to glitter, and switched to the psychic channel accessible only to the members of the Sheaf. _Our losses, Strategist?_

Kaya, the Guardian of the Heavens, squirmed in the viscous jelly of the contact substance.

_Seven battle modules, Pillar of Order._

_That is many._

_Yes. But now I know more about their weapons. In the future, we will avoid such losses._

_I hope._ Modules, like the other technology aboard the Ship, were not irreplaceable, especially on the threshold of an inhabited and technologically developed world. Yata remembered that and, ending speaking of the battle's outcome, addressed Iveh. _Speaker! Are there messages for us from the Bino Tegari planet?_

_No, but there soon will be. We are analyzing the reactions of the mass media..._ The Intermediary stammered, but then explained. _That is what they call their means of spreading information. Not the authority of the Pillars of Order, not an enforcement organ, not a group owning raw materials and production, but a very influential layer with a high status. A structure similar to their religions and performing the same function but more effectively: the creation of an illusory reality and the dissemination of opinions that it is real. As a result–_

_Is the opinion about us also illusory?_ Yata interrupted the Intermediary.

_In part. As I calculated, many see us as a symbol of retribution and justice._

_Many?_

_The majority. Their strength is in their numbers and in that condition of the mind they call fanaticism. They believe in us, and, therefore, the other part of their population, the one controlling the planet, will collaborate with us. It is obvious that their message will arrive within the next cycle._

_Do you imagine what it could contain?_

_Apologies. They will attempt to convince us that a mistake has been made, that their Strategist acted without permission, not on the order of his rulers. We will also be offered several areas for landing. Naturally, on the territories of the countries whose fleet we have fought, and in those locations where it will be easier to monitor us._

_This issue needs to be discussed. Do you have suggestions?_

_Yes, Pillar of Order._

The inhabited world appeared in Yata's consciousness as an intangible but clear vision of a sphere hovering in the emptiness. The image sent by the Speaker with the Bino Tegari represented a map in natural colors: a green-gray ocean with enormous bays that delved deep into the depths of the two large landmasses, opposing one another on the planetary sphere; dark mountain ranges, numerous patches of greenery, gray-yellow twists of rivers, settlements scattered all over the planet, and vast spaces of unusual hues, white and red. There were also smaller landmasses; the largest of them, marked in white, was on a pole.

_The red and the white, what are those?_ Yata asked.

_Formations without analogues in the Old and the New Worlds. The red are plains covered by sand, the white are areas of ice. The continent on the south pole is completely covered in ice, and their depth is such that the Ship would be half-buried in it._

_Much water... Good... The Ship requires water... Does this landmass belong to anyone?_

_It is considered to be an area of joint ownership, Pillar of Order._

_Doubly good. Do you recommend it as a landing spot?_

_Without a doubt._

_Then tell the Bino Tegari that we will land here._ Yata put a mental dot on the south pole and reached out to Tiych. _We lost seven large modules in the battle, but, besides them, also sixteen small ones, right in the hold cavity. Its hull is punctured, the local brain is dead, and the Ship will be restoring it for at least a cycle. Explain, Keeper, what is happening?_

Tiych was afraid. Sensing his fear, Yata mused that he was still young and incapable of hiding his feelings. Then again, all Keepers, closely communicating with the quasi-living technology of the Daskins, suffered from superfluous excitability, which was thought to be a compensation for their natural gift. A very rare gift, and so Tiych did not need to fear vaporization; they would have had to return to the New Worlds to get another Keeper of Communications.

And yet he was still afraid. Perhaps not the Pillar of Order's punishment, but something else?

_The Bino Tegari was hiding in the storage, among the pilots,_ Tiych informed him, trying not to give away his fright. _A very cunning creature… chose a place where he could not be found using thermal charts. I believe he activated the annihilator of a small module, even though that seems improbable. I would not be able to do that without a pilot's help… Neither would you, Pillar of Order._

_Where is he now?_

_He is not in the storage. I am continuing the search._

_This is becoming a problem. What do you think, Keeper?_

Suddenly, Yata realized that Tiych was not afraid of him. The Ship and this escaped Bino Tegari, that was what filled him with such dread!

_The problem is not in the search for the escapee, but in the quasi-mind's reactions,_ he reported. _Until now, I deemed them normal, but now the situation has changed. I think… no, I am almost certain: the Ship does not wish for us to find him._

_Astounding!.._ Yata thought. _Beyond belief even…_ His thought matched the opinion of the Intermediary and the Strategist, _could that be possible!?_

_It could be,_ Tiych confirmed. _It could, if the Bino Tegari holds a special value to the Ship. Do not ask me what value, I will be unable to answer that question. Do not forget, we are not the creators of the quasi-mind, were are merely using it, in the way our experience and common sense tell us. But the ways of the Daskins are unknown to us, and their thoughts are a mystery. What did they consider common sense? Why did they create living machines? And why do they have the gift of telepathic communication?.. I do not know, and no one does._

He disconnected without asking Yata's permission. After a long pause, Iveh, the Intermediary, asked, _There is another problem, Pillar of Order: we have lost the human ksa. Ayn, a geneticist, wanted to check how the hybrid fetus was developing, but the ksa had disappeared, and, along with her, so did Yo, my assistant. We did not find either of them in the t'hami halls, and the Ship does not know where they are. Or it does not wish to inform us._

_A stake in its nerve cluster!_ the Strategist uttered an ancient curse.

Ignoring him, Yata ordered, _Do not think about those who have disappeared and the Ship, Intermediary, that is Tiych's concern. Continue the negotiations, promise, intimidate, and demand. We need a place for a base, supply of raw materials, and human t'ho, more t'ho workers! Send the recording of the battle to their Pillars, let them know that their fleet is dead. If that does not make them see reason, we shall destroy several settlements._

_Cities, Pillar of Order._

_Yes, cities. Select the appropriate ones._

Breaking the connection, Yata turned back to the observation sphere, a tiny image of Earth floating in its center. The Ship was moving fast, catching up to the planet running away towards the Sun. Two more cycles, and it would descend to its surface.

The recording of the events was short - about six minutes from the beginning of the attack to the final salvo which destroyed the medium cruiser _Tiburon_. On the enormous screen taking up an entire wall of the office, cruisers exploded, caught by a beam strike, fighters burned up like gnats in a flame, clouds of sizzling gas swirled, thin, impossibly bright plasma bursts ripped apart armor with predatory tenacity. The background for this picture was darkness, lit up by sparks of indifferent stars.

After watching the recording, the man sitting in front of the screen raised his hand and imperatively snapped his fingers. The video started over, slower, with analysts' commentaries, who pointed out specific, gloomiest parts. The names of the destroyed cruisers flashed at the bottom along with the names of their captains, tactical and technical data, and crew complement; a mournful list, at the top of which were Admiral Timokhin and the _Suzdal_, the flotilla's flagship. Twelve warships, two thousand crewmembers...

The video ended, and the man said, "Connect me to Washington. Immediately."

He was alone in the room, a spacious office with oak paneling, but each his gesture and word was probably being monitored. A quiet rumble came from the speakers on both sides of the screen, then a woman's musical voice spoke.

"Administration of the President of the EAU, direct intercontinental communication channel, encoding LJ-34-B. Mister President is requesting Mr. George Grier to the screen."

"Soundproof the room," the man sitting in front of the screen said. "Asadin, ensure that it's done."

"Of course," a man's voice replied this time.

The President of the EAU, who was usually just called the Russian President, stood up, stepped away from the screen, and sat behind his desk. There were two sheets of paper in front of him marked "Received at 21:17". The large distinctive font stood out on the white paper like coal sprinkled in snow.

"Mr. Grier, the President of the United States and Canada, is on the line."

The screen activated. It was early morning in Washington. The sky in the window behind Grief was only starting to turn pink, and the man himself was in a bathrobe, thrown over his pajamas.

"Hello, George. Have you already watched? And read?"

The Russian stirred the papers on his desk, and the American nodded.

"Hi, Mike." They did not stand on protocol in private and very important conversations. "Watched and read. My condolences regarding Timokhin. He was a good admiral."

"Yes. Too bad we'll have to ruin his memory."

"It's necessary, Mike."

"Of course it is, George."

These two decided the fate of Earth. That was how it had been in the recent past, that was how it was now, and that was how it would be in the future. They were going to do everything in their power to maintain the status quo. Two superpowers ruled the world: one, taking up half of Eurasia, was strong by virtue of its enormous territory, its inexhaustible natural resources, and its people's artistic strength; the other had wealth and technological potential. The leaders of both countries had long ago figured out that their unity granted them power over the planet. Moreover, power over the Solar System, sufficiently spacious for any ambitions, plans, and interests. A third power, capable of competing with them, did not exist; the UN, the Security Council, the other international organization, Europe, Japan, and South America were mere appendages to their undisputed power or sources of human reserves.

There was no third power… But now one had appeared. Being experienced politicians, they had come to peace with that fact. Perhaps, if the consequences were calculated, it would not be that unpleasant.

"What do you say about their ultimatum, George?"

The American glanced to the side; there were also probably a few sheets of paper on his desk.

"Let's not consider this text as an ultimatum, Mike. A draft of a peace treaty, I like that better. The term 'ultimatum' brings back other, even less pleasant words: capitulation, occupation, reparation…"

"All coming from Latin," the Russian President chuckled.

"From Latin, damn it," the American agreed. "The wisdom of the Ancient Romans teaches us: those who refuse to admit defeat are not defeated."

"That is most certainly true. In essence, there was a minor skirmish caused by Timokhin's negligence. He misunderstood the Security Council's instructions, which we regret very much. We do not foresee any more incidents, especially since we need to preserve the strengths of our fleets for a decisive strike."

"When we find a vulnerable spot, Mike. For now…" the man on the screen got lost in thought. "For now, we will express our regrets and apologies. No aggressive demarches in the press, the articles must maintain a neutral or friendly tone. As for our proposals… Well, of course, our guests can approach Earth and land in the chosen region; the Antarctic works very well for that. Of course, we will allocate territory for cultural connection centers, somewhere in Siberia or Alaska. We will supply workers, materials, equipment, all the necessary resources, everything they desire. And we, of course, are not against the scientific research into the genetic compatibility of humans and Faata. Actually, that would be interesting… Well, what else do they want?"

The Russian President peeked into the papers on his desk.

"Freedom of movement for their flying machines."

"No problem, for heaven's sake! Our orbital platforms and the Lunar Base will be able to track them. Our specialists insist that, unlike their starship, their warships are not equipped with shields; it obviously requires an extremely powerful source of energy. Timokhin destroyed seven of them… I am certain Chavez will do no worse."

"We should inform them that we are unable to guarantee complete safety. Our influence does not extend to India, China, Borneo, a series African and Arab nations, and several other regions. We need to clearly mark them and inform our guests that these areas are outside our jurisdiction. Except, of course, when it involves acts of retribution."

They exchanged glances.

"Our precious guests…" the American said.

"Their interstellar drive…"

"Force fields…"

"Gravity manipulation…"

"Annihilator…"

"Wave therapy…"

"Life extension methods…"

"Yeah…" the Russian President intoned with a dreamy smile. "Fantastic, magical prospects!"

"If we could only remove the magicians… As you Russians say, 'porridge separately, butter separately'."

"I disagree, George, we might still need the porridge. Have your analysts properly study the protocols sent by Timokhin. There is a trend there… It seems that our guests have a problem with the workforce; at any rate, they consider it to be the most valuable resource. On the other hand, they don't seem to have any problems with habitable territories and food production. They have colonized many planets and can feed a large population… enormous even… billions, tens of billions… Do you understand what I mean, George?"

"A profitable export," the American nodded. "The people in Asia and Africa, who have become a burden and a threat to us. And these damned Neoluddites and Antiglobalists, the Children of Allah, the Crimson Jihad and the Assassins, the terrorists and the mafia, the separatists and the drug dealers. Our headache, Mr. President, which could turn into our commodity. An excellent idea, Mike! I do admire your foresight. Just take that trick with the Third Fleet's maneuvers… If not that, then these nonhuman Binucks would have fallen upon us like a tornado on the fields of Kansas!"

"Merely a lucky coincidence," the Russian President said. "A fluke, nothing more."

They talked some more about the fall elections in the EAU and the chances of this or that candidate for the second place. There was no doubt about who would take the first.

Angelotti was pleased; the latest issue of the _CosmoSpiegel_ was adorned with Gunther Voss's sensational articles titled "They Have Screwed Us" and "Defeat of the Third Fleet, Beginning of the End". Most of the mass media, including Patrick McCaffrey, the JBC reporter, did not support Voss's idea, leaning towards the official version, stating that the fight had been a mistake and that Admiral Timokhin exceeded his authority due to his innate xenophobia or, perhaps, because he'd had a nervous breakdown. The press kept calling the incident either the crime of the century or the most tragic event since the Crusades and the two world wars, and Timokhin would occasionally appear in the list of the most famous maniacs, which included such people as Stalin, Hitler, and Pol Pot. Gorchakov, who knew the truth, had wanted to shoot himself, but, after much hesitation, decided that, in this momentous historical moment, when his country and the world were in need of his services, that would count as desertion. Thus deciding, he put his personal weapon, an engraved needler, back into the safe with a sigh of relief. Admirals Haley and Chavez were also aware that Timokhin had merely been doing his duty and followed the instructions of the Security Council, the copies of which were kept in their top secret staff documents. But, due to the impending events, the defense of Timokhin and the honor of the uniform had to be postponed. The admirals were busy; Chavez kept the First Fleet in combat readiness, while Haley had taken command the divisions of the Third Fleet and was redeploying them, along with the Second Fleet's squadrons, closer to Earth.

The cruiser _Taiga_ took the geophysicists off Eros and, following Admiral Haley's orders, set course for the Lunar Base, rounding the Sun on an elliptical trajectory. Captain Degtyar announced a period of mourning for the dead, and, in their memory, the weapons of the _Taiga_ gave a twelve-salvo salute. The _Siberia_, the _Starfire_, and the _Barracuda_, who did not make it in time for the battle, were also on their way to Earth and Luna, and mournful silence reigned on their decks. Joy was also absent from the other USF ships. Each had friends among the two thousand astronauts and marines, who had passed into the Great Darkness, and each was tormented by their doubts regarding the aliens. No matter how the media tried to play the events, the thoughts about the worst possibility itched like a mosquito at the temple: maybe the aliens had showed up not to give, but to take.

The three inhabitants of Post 13 on the Tartarus Plateau were also plagued by the same suspicions, which turned into furious debates. Demeskis, a staunch pacifist, was of the opinion that peace, even a bad one, was still better than war, Sviridov longed for revenge, while Paul Durant tried to reconcile them, for which he was labeled a filthy conformist. Additionally, they received a radio message that the supply schedule had been changed, the next shuttle flight would be delayed, and that they should cut back on their rations. This happened during storms, but it was quiet on Tartarus, and the delay spoke only of the chaos and disorder in the USF supply division.

The _Copernicus_ launched towards Earth, leaving the _Mariner_ station after refueling. The planetologists aboard the ship were continuing their discussions regarding Jupiter's Great Red Spot. Traffic controller Kalikh and the station personnel, who were pretty tired of the scholars, sighed with relief: only their people remained at the café and at the bar, and no one was buzzing near their ears, no one kept them from drinking a cocktail and skinny-dipping in the pool. Although, they drank and swam quickly, hurrying back to the TVs for the news. There was no astronomical division on the station, but the observatory on Phobos, which had a large telescope, tracked the alien starship, sending hourly updates. The ship, after destroying Timokhin's cruisers, was on its way to Earth. Admiral Haley's fleet followed, leaving Mars defenseless.

Miners Sydney Birk and Juan Arego were a lot less bothered by it than by the prices on beer and gin. Due to the embargo on space flights, declared by Earth, the mine's production was not being exported, while prices had gone up and promised to eat up daily wages in the near future. Their mining spirit would not accept such a breakdown of stability, and Arego and Birk's colleagues were prepared to smash the tavern to pieces, block the road used to export the ore, and bang their hardhats on the rails. Whoever was invading Earth, three-headed spiders or intelligent octopuses, the working man would get his own! That was the opinion of the union leaders and the gangster syndicate supplying the mine with liquor.

Lieutenant Stig Olsen and his team reached the lair of the Tigers of Islam, knocked them out of their caves, and discovered the remains of Instructor Serov and his cadet. He stood like a statue in his combat suit over the mutilated bodies, gritted his teeth and pondered how to send the captured terrorists into the afterlife. The soldiers surrounding their commander were silent, but Olsen knew that the sentence had already been passed and was not subject to appeal. He could have, naturally, repeat what was done with the victims, put out the prisoners' eyes, skin them alive, then draw-and-quarter them, but that was not the marine tradition. Taking his beam rifle off his neck, Olsen nodded to his people and walked towards the crevice where the prisoners had been herded. The PT-36 plasma thrower was durable and heavy, like an ancient mace. The stocks containing the batteries were especially durable.

The house on the outskirts of Brussels was, as always, dark and quiet. It was believed that its owner, as expected from a reporter, was flying around the continents, cities, and countries, spending nights in hotels, eating in bars or on the plane between the take-off in Paris and the landing in Rio, and writing articles on his lap; or rather, not writing but dictating into his pocketpute. That was a good cover explaining his unsociability, sudden disappearances, appearances, and other strange things that could be written off as the quirks of a busy man, extremely enthusiastic about his work and career. Belgium in general was a land of oddballs and the inviolable freedom of the individual, where everything that did not interfere with the lives of others was permitted, from voluntary euthanasia to same-sex families. A very comfortable country! Although, during the Middle Ages, when he'd first appeared on Earth, this place was not very nice: squabbles between the barons and the cities, wars with Germany and France, then the Spanish occupation and the pyres on which heretics were burned. They'd tried to burn him too, eight or nine times, considering him to be a warlock.

Chuckling at the memory, he went down into the basement and stood there, looking at the walls painted with knight's castles, caravels sailing at sea, groves where fairies lived and creatures that looked like Spolders. In his world, the Spolders lived separately from the dominant race, to which he belonged; they lived on an enormous island near the equator, banned for his kind, except for several trading posts and ports. The Spolders did not possess the gift of change, did not recognize technology and did not strive towards close contact, considering his people to be too restless and fussy. They were great philosophers; well, some of them, at least.

Smiling again, he stepped towards a wall and slid a panel, behind which was a cabinet filled with junk left over from previous owners. Children's sledges, toys, a pair of roller skates, a box with a construction set, cubes, a model rocket, colored beads the size of a fingernail… Nothing valuable to burglars, if they could even be found in this quiet, prosperous country. He pulled out the box with the beads and touched his finger to one, then another, then a third, until he felt a prick. Technically, the sensation was not tactile but mental; the finger, the skin, and the nerves were entirely human and unable to feel what his mind could.

Pulling out the bead, he put it on the floor, put his hands close to it, and, concentrating, sent the "open" signal. Then he stepped farther away. The bead, the embryo of a sigga, was one of the few devices which he'd kept for over eight centuries. Not really a weapon, but a device that could be used as such on a rainy day. And that day was coming, for the human flotilla had been unable to deal with the Bino Faata, and, without a doubt, there would not be any other attacks. The leaders of Earth really were thick-headed! Then again, they were following their own experiences, which were the experiences of merchants, not thinkers… One couldn't deal with the Faata like that. A culture that had experienced decline twice was not inclined to trade, it would take what it wanted in other ways: deception, force, rational violence. Humans would eventually be convinced of this… very soon, if he failed.

The room grew colder, gray frost settling over the walls; the sigga, requiring energy, was sucking heat out of the air. The ball was now the size of a soccer ball and continued to grow, taking the shape of a flattened ribbed sphere. Its outer surface gleamed steel blue, and, from its upper point, a thin flexible proboscis reached out, coiling. This visible part was not the device itself, merely a container made of carbon film. The container was durable, the device was inactive, but he still stepped towards the door with apprehension. The sigga was not as terrible as a powerful nuclear warhead, but it was still scarier than the fires of the Spanish Inquisition; if the uncontrollable device were to be activated, the ashes of Brussels would fit in a thimble.

He started the calibration, telepathically setting the parameters of what would need to be destroyed. Not plastic, not metal, not mineral, not living organics… almost living, similar to living, but not carbon-based… When properly programmed, the device's selection unit could distinguish millions of substances and choose the correct one. But the calibration process was subtle and complex, and he hadn't performed any such operation in a long time. He could make a mistake, and then…

The growth of the sigga slowed down, then stopped. Now it looked like a large, knee-high pumpkin with a shiny gray-silver peel and bulging ribs. The proboscis, coiling twice around it in even circles, ended in an injector tube, now securely blocked. The device was not yet activated, and there were no sounds coming from the container. He tensed, the flattened sphere rocked and grudgingly lifted above the floor. The device weighed at least a hundred kilograms, which was the limit of his transportation capability. The distance was also not small, three-eighth of the equator, if the Ship landed in the Antarctic, but he was certain he could do it. The transportation would not present difficulties, unlike the activation.

Lowering the device to the floor, he reached out with his mind to the Ship and immediately detected the captive. After the painful shock, he was not in the best condition, but was gradually coming to. A hardy being, and a very, very stubborn one! Although the captive had not figured out the kaff completely, had not subordinated the Daskin creation, he still had his good qualities. There was no need to list them; the main things were that he remained alive, that he was aboard the Ship, and that was where the sigga would end up. Soon, very soon…

At the moment of the device's activation, it would be better to be far from the Ship. He could have done it himself, but he valued his life too much, as long as the entire history of Earth's civilizations. It would be unfair if it was interrupted on this faraway planet, where he was, in essence, as alien as the Faata. Let the captive take the risk. After all, he was human and a native of Earth, which meant he could give his life to save it.


	17. Chapter 16

_This is a fan translation of _Invasion_ (Вторжение) by Mikhail Akhmanov, currently only available in Russian and, because of the author's passing in 2019, unlikely to ever be published in English. This is the first book in a six-book series called _Arrivals from the Dark_ (Пришедшие из мрака), which also has a six-book spin-off series called _Trevelyan's Mission_ (Миссия Тревельяна)._

_I claim no rights to the contents herein._

* * *

**Chapter 16**

In near-Earth space and on Earth

They were in a tight and dark hole that stretched in both directions behind the partition of the transportation line. This hallway was narrow and low, and Litvin was walking bent over, constantly hitting his helmet on the ceiling. Below, partly buried in a recess in the floor, was an endless worm, weakly glowing with a pinkish hue. It was the only source of light; the pink line disappeared into the impenetrable darkness and vanished about twenty or thirty meters ahead. The worm, an outgrowth of the Ship's nervous system, was as thick as an elephant's trunk, and its shell shuddered and pulsed rhythmically. They had to walk next to it with care; there was just enough space to set a foot down. Yo walked with ease, like a gymnast on a balance beam, but for McNeil, each step was a problem.

"Hold on," Litvin said, tracing the lines of the web floating in his mind. "We'll come out to a crossing soon. It should be roomier there."

"I'm holding on," Abby sighed. "Never would have thought that carrying a child was so heavy."

"Easier for you," Litvin tried to cheer her up. "At least it's three months instead of nine."

"The last three months are as bad as the first six put together," McNeil muttered and sighed again.

Litvin was also moving with difficulty, still recovering from the painful shock. He would have probably died in the contact film, if not for the women. When everything had started exploding and burning in the hangar, they returned to the module, pulled Litvin out onto the deck, and Yo, under Abby's guidance, managed to stuff him back into his suit. It was easier after that: the combat suit could walk in an autonomous mode, in case of wounds or a concussion. At the transportation alcove, Litvin regained consciousness and immediately realized that hiding in the hangar was pointless; only someone blind and deaf would miss the fireworks he had caused. They got into a pod, rode it for about five hundred meters, after which he cut an opening into the wall. The first time, he'd cut it lower, now he went higher, and he turned out to be right, the whip missed the outgrowth of the brain. They exited the pod into this maze of passages, in which the Ship's nervous system was laid out or, perhaps, grown. It was their final refuge; whether it was secure or not, neither Yo nor Litvin knew. Yo did not even know about the existence of the Ship's secret tunnels, which could not be reached without a plasma cutter or another such instrument.

Litvin walked behind Yo unsteadily, counted his steps, and, listening to McNeil's sighs behind him, tried not to hurry. Sometimes his beloved fairy turned around, and, in the half-light, he saw the glint of her silver eyes and the bead glowing on her temple. Yo's tuahha had come to an end, and she no longer sought intimacy with him, but she still looked at him with tenderness, not missing a chance to touch his arm or cheek. If the Ship had programmed something into her, it was only the initial momentum, that affection that a person suddenly and unexplainably felt for another person. But the feeling that had blossomed from this seed was natural, not connected in any way to anyone's influence on Yo's mind or with the season of mating activity. Undoubtedly, the Faata were different from humans in many ways, but they were also many similarities. Probably in the main thing: their spirit was higher than physiology, their feelings were stronger than social laws. At least that was how it was for Yo.

_If we get out of this thing,_ Litvin thought, _it will be a strange married life: a month of abstinence, then a week of furious, scorching lovemaking._ But, for some reason, that did not scare him. Like millions of men before him, he was beginning to understand that life had many sides and facets, and they were all beautiful.

At about the five hundred step mark, the tunnel led them out into a small chamber, where four more hallways intersected. The chamber was pentagonal, and there was a dark-brown, slowly pulsing mass bulging at the center, which connected to the worm-like outgrowths. This was one of the Ship's thought centers, controlling or monitoring something, maybe air composition, transportation network, weapons, communications, or gravity. It was possible it was all of the above within the limits of a specific area.

McNeil, holding her belly with her hands, sat down, leaning on a wall, and closed her eyes. Pulling a tube with honey out of the food container, Litvin put it in her hands, said "Eat this!" and stared at the brown substance. At this moment, the enormous brain that was the Ship was not something abstract or mysterious to him, existing only on the mental level; for the first time, he was seeing a part of the being so unlike both humans and aliens, but still possessing of a mind or something akin to it.

He turned to Yo and asked, "This thing that controls the Ship, was it always this big?"

"No. They feed and grow."

"Feed? With what?"

"I don't know exactly. Silicon, water, something else… The more abundant the meal, the faster the growth."

McNeil nodded off. Her face was pale, tired, deep bags had appeared under her eyes, strands of red hair drooped on her forehead. Her strength was at an end, Litvin saw. Then again, so was his own; after the bout of fury and the painful shock, he felt himself drained. He did not know what to do, for any development led to disgraceful captivity or death. Maybe the better option would be to return to the module and fire until he kicked the bucket… But then what would happen to Yo and McNeil?..

_Ship,_ he called out, _are we on the way to Earth?_

_Yes._

_How long will the flight take?_

_Approximately two cycles. Forty-two hours using human time measurements._

_Is Earth going to fight?_

_Doubtful. Your leaders do not wish to take risks. They prefer…_ the Ship stopped, looking for a term, _to pay off the Faata. An agreement has already been reached._

_Where will we land?_

_At the South Pole. In the Antarctic._

_But why? There's nothing but cold and ice there…_

_Temperature is irrelevant. There is water. A large mass of frozen water._

The Antarctic! The Antarctic, damn it! Litvin bit his lip in desperation. That was the last blow; even leaving the Ship, they could not escape from the South Pole. They would need transportation, something like a Vulture, fast, reliable… If only he could control the module!

Yo embraced him, touched her cheek to his, and the desperation retreated. Her aroma was like a gulp of a healing balm.

"Sleep, girl, sleep," Litvin whispered.

"You forget that the Faata don't sleep." Her breath tickled his ear. "This is an Earth custom. We restore our strength in t'hami."

He smiled.

"If there is no t'hami, you will probably remember sleep."

"No, I will not. I don't want to! Sleep is a lost life, and it is already short, far too short."

"But I can't go without sleep," Litvin said. "What will you do at those times?"

Yo's warm lips touched his neck.

"Look at you… think about you… wait…"

Litvin's eyelids came together.

_Ship,_ he called, drifting off into sleep, _Ship…_

_I listen._

_You mentioned an agreement with humans. Will the Faata comply with it?_

The answer was silence and the feeling of bitterness, as if the Ship was weeping for the entire human race, doomed to perdition. Vague images appeared before Litvin: he saw human cruisers, orbital docks, observatories, and stations turning to dust, cities in flames, human throngs rushing among the remains of the burned-down buildings, the blossoming of a crimson fountain over the Lunar Base, the collapse of the familiar world. Faata battle modules hovered in the sky, spitting out jets of flame, ruins covered in smoke, and endless columns of slaves, walking on the ash-covered ground like a march of ants whose hill had burned down. And he himself, Pavel Litvin, walked in one of those columns, bent over from the burden of sorrow. T'ho, of limited sentience, who had missed his chance…

They sat in the pentagonal chamber for over a day, eating their meager supply of the military rations and barely talking. McNeil spent most of the time in a slumber, either because of a residual effect of the sleeping gas, or because she feared the changes that had happened to her and did not wish to either think of them or return to reality. Yo was also not in her best shape; her face had become haggard, her eyes had dimmed, and she now looked like a fairy whose magical powers had been taken away by some evil sorcery. Maybe she understood the hopelessness of their situation better than Litvin: either they would die in this narrow compartment, or, pushed by thirst and hunger, would exit their sanctuary with the same lethal result. Yo appeared to be afraid of death. Humans doomed to die were consoled and supported by their memories, sorting through the pearls of victories and fortunes, gusts of passion and childish joy, making it easier to accept the inevitable. Yo had nothing to remember, except for love, as brief as a wave of her eyelashes.

Trying to distract himself, Litvin monitored space via the Ship's external sensors. The alien starship was moving with great speed, and the Sun grew by the hour, turning from a yellow tennis ball to a blinding golden sphere that was the center of the universe. A familiar sight for an astronaut, to whom the Sun appeared in its many and varied forms: from a terrifying shaggy luminary of Mercury to a humble altar lamp hanging over the Asteroid Belt. A star shone to the right of the Sun, the brightest one in the celestial sphere, splitting into two a day later, and that was also familiar: the moment when Earth and Luna moved apart was visible to the naked eye. Gradually, the larger of the stars began to fill with blue, acquire volume and shape; then, on the disk of Earth, clouds started to move, oceans began to gleam, and the line of the terminator separated night from day.

"We're arriving," Litvin said. "Hold on tight, girls."

But that was unnecessary. The ship was shedding speed, orbiting the planet loop after loop, but the gravity didn't change, and Litvin, like before, did not feel the force of inertia. Apparently, maneuvers in near-Earth space and the compensation of gravity tension were not simple tasks: the white bulge at the center of the compartment rhythmically shook and vibrated, and the same activity was felt in other nodes of the nervous system. At one point, the images appearing before Litvin mixed together, overlaying one another; through the cloud veil and the ice-covered continent, a gloomy cavity with an observation sphere shone through, along with the figures of pilots in dimly lit alcoves, Yata with his three assistants. Then, obeying his will, the control room disappeared, and Litvin saw the Ship's stern descend into the gray clouds. An ocean flashed by blow, then the edge of pack ice appeared, along with spiked ridges and an endless white field. The starship was coming in to land on a wide arc from the Weddell Sea and Queen Maud Land, moving southeast towards the pole.

One could not call this a landing, it was more like a phenomenon of cosmic proportions: an artificial asteroid, spraying flocks of clouds and generating vortices, slowly, smoothly, lowered itself onto the landmass. The top of the gigantic cylinder was still above the clouds, when the base touched the ice, which immediately began to boil. The heated hull sank into its cold embrace, melting the path to the rocky bottom under the eternal glacier; it went down hundreds of meters, but was still towering over the clouds. Monstrous fountains of steam soared up into the air, the hurricane began to storm with renewed vigor, and then something unprecedented happened, when rain spilled over the icy continent. It was a torrent, flowing from the sky and transforming into a snowstorm that reached all the shores of the continent; the wind cracked the ice fields, threw ice mountains into the sea, sent ocean waves in all directions, to Tierra del Fuego and the Cape of Good Hope, to Tasmania and New Zealand, to Australia and Madagascar.

But Litvin did not see that. In front of him, clouding his inner sight, hot steam clouded, and it seemed to him that he was on Venus once again, flying as a leaf, carried by a storm, submitting to the wind rather than fighting it. Suddenly, the Ship shuddered, something dashed away from its surface, and the image became clearer.

"Are we on solid ground?" Litvin asked.

"Not yet," the fleshless voice answered. "A module was released, and the landing is being monitored through its cameras in the shortwave band."

The module circled under the cloud veil, next to the Ship. Its hull was still sinking into the shell gripping the landmass; a giant bulwark grew around the enormous cylinder, made of icy debris, moving and crawling on top of one another, like a herd of huge transparent amoebae. Rain continued to fall from the sky, and the streams of water, penetrating the icy chaos and freezing in it, cemented the boulders and the debris, turning them into mountains and then into a monolith, like the wall of a volcanic crater. Cracks ran out from it, ripping the ice field, immediately being gripped by the solidifying water. The surrounding areas of the continent shuddered and moved for hundreds of kilometers, but, gradually, these convulsions were calming down, becoming weaker and less frequent. The geysers of steam, shooting out above the wall of ice, started to vanish, the downpour stopped, and now snow whirled in the twilight air, covering the area in a white doughy shroud.

The Ship stopped. Litvin looked through the module's sensors at the gigantic tower, which went down into the ice for two kilometers, up to the lower toroidal ring. Its top was hidden by the low-hanging clouds, but it still appeared enormous, like an iron spindle piercing the planet from pole to pole, a mythical axis, around which, from night to day and day to night, the Earth spheroid revolved. There were no rocks or mountain ranges here, only the white Antarctic plain, and no detail of the scenery could compare to this grandiose structure. The bulwark at its foot looked like a tiny wall made by some kids who wanted to play ice castles.

"What do you see?" McNeil asked.

"We have landed. This… this looks like an ice carapace being struck by a sledgehammer." Litvin wiped his forehead. "We're sticking out of the plain like a nail out of a board… this huge nail from earth to the sky… Below is a frozen desert, above are clouds, and between them are snow and rain. But the storm appears to be calming down."

"Do you think someone will come for us?"

"For us? Unlikely, Abby. We need to find a way out ourselves."

"We do, sir." She stroked her belly. "We definitely need to get out. Let there be something left of Richard… his child…"

His child! Litvin's heard clenched painfully, but he said in a brisk voice, "We'll wait. We're not in space anymore. An opportunity might present itself."

They waited for nearly eight hours. The hurricane stopped, but the snowfall grew denser; millions of tons of water, vaporized during the landing, fell from the sky in unending torrents. The wall of ice below was shrinking; apparently, there were hatches open that consumed the ice. Once, the floor shuddered under their feet, and a row of modules, lifting off from the outer surface of the Ship, flew up swiftly into the clouds. There seemed to be at least a hundred of them to Litvin; the dark angular vessels soared up with an amazing speed, like bullets fired from a machinegun. A scouting mission, the Ship explained. Their rapid take-off and the flickering of the snow were the only movements over the dead white surface of the continent. No human machines appeared, either combat or transport, but it was obvious that the Ship was being monitored from orbital stations.

Litvin's eyes were growing heavy, when a breath of cold came through the pentagonal chamber. This seemed incredible; the Ship maintained a uniform temperature in all its compartments, and the air was motionless, like a warm windless day somewhere in the steppes of Kazakhstan. The sleep that almost gripped Litvin leapt away like a scared sparrow; he sat up, his eyes wide, staring at the brown substance, a part of the quasi-mind. But it did not appear to be the source of the alarm, continuing the pulse steadily, as if resting after the effort of the landing.

The air next to it seemed to explode. McNeil and Yo yelped in surprise. Litvin, clenching his fingers, threw out the cutting strand; for a moment, he thought he saw an olk's enormous figure in the middle of the chamber. But it was not an olk but, without a doubt, a human from Earth. Fairly tall and thin, with unkempt blond hair, gray eyes, a long nose, and narrow lips. A typical German or Scandinavian in his forties, dressed for summer, wearing gray slacks and a t-shirt with the portrait of a vaguely familiar bearded man; possibly Vasco Lowe, a showman and guitarist. This guy was just as inappropriate here, aboard an alien ship, as a picture of a porn star in an astrophysical journal.

Litvin's jaw dropped. He got up, the joints of his combat suit clanging, put himself in front of the women and raised the whip, as if about to make the sign of the cross.

"What the hell!.." McNeil muttered behind him.

"Put the weapon away, officer," the stranger spoke in English. His voice was sharp, raspy, and his lips moved as if they were about to form a malicious grin. "If I'm not mistaken, you are an officer from the destroyed _Lark_".

Litvin nodded automatically.

"Lieutenant Commander Litvin, Marine Corps. With me is Lieutenant McNeil, and…" He turned to Yo, shuddered and fell silent, amazed by her facial expression. She was looking at the strange guest like at a demon from hell.

"A Faata woman. My compliments, Lieutenant Commander. I see you haven't been wasting any time." The stranger tapped his forehead with bent fingers. "And now take off the kaff, and from her as well. We don't need unwanted witnesses."

"Who are you? How did you get here?" Litvin muttered, tearing the kaff from his temple. Yo, as if mesmerized, followed suit.

"An excellent question! You want to know how I got here? Well, you human call it teleportation, but we call it a spatial puncture. The Ship moves the same way but at far greater distances. Of course, I don't fly through the stars, but here, on Earth, I don't need crutches." He finally smiled, and that grin was indeed malicious. "What else are you interested in, Lieutenant Commander? My name? I can offer several of them for you to choose. Here's Gunther Voss, the leading reporter of the _CosmoSpiegel_ magazine, and here's Liu Chang, a Chinese astronomer of the Kepler Observatory…"

His body suddenly shriveled, like a deflated balloon. The metamorphosis was instantaneous and too fast for the eye to see; instead of the thin blond European, Litvin saw a just-as-thin short Chinaman with dark hair and black eyes. The t-shirt with Vasco Lowe's bearded mug hung off of his shoulders like on a rack, his pants slid down to his thighs. The Chinese man pulled up the pants and seemed to jump up, once again changing; he was now a tall black man with plump lips and a dazzling smile. Brushing his brown cheeks and chin with an elegant gesture, the African spoke.

"And this is Umkhonto Tlume, a diplomat and temporary member of the Security Council from the Zulu Territory. A very intelligent and educated fellow! With a Master's in Political Science from Princeton, a Ph.D. in International Law from Oxford, Yale… Well, that's beside the point; ten academic degrees won't turn a black skin white. But I can! I can!" Waving his arms, he turned into a broad-shouldered muscular guy with a rosy-cheeked face. "Roy Bunch, special assignment officer, USF Singapore base! And once again, old chap Gunther…"

A strange raspy sound came out of Yo's throat. Pale as marble, she back to the wall, stretching out her hands with her palms connected; her lips quivered, her pupils dissolved in the silver eyes.

"_Daskin,_" she whispered, "_Daskin…_ _k'taya ronero limra ain… tza desizi, tza derati, tza demuro… airigo pa, Daskin, airigo out_…"

The one calling himself Gunther Voss smiled crookedly.

"_Airigo pa, Daskin_… Not a Daskin, dear lady, not in the least, and you cannot drive me out with these First Phase curses! Had I been a Daskin, I would've turned you all to dust near Jupiter, both you and those Silmarri, the stupid worms! But I am merely a member of a race of small-time magicians, their emissary on Earth, an almost casual observer… We're nothing compared to them! But we can do a few things."

"Shit," McNeil muttered, "shit, shit! Yo, calm down… sit next to me… sit, I tell you! He won't harm us."

A chart of the living galaxy, in all multicolored beauty, floated up from Litvin's memory, which whispered in the Ship's disembodied voice, _You are not of interest to anyone until you become a threat… Although, it is not out of the question that there are observers in your system… The region of the gas giant was patrolled by the Silmarri…_

And here was the observer, Litvin thought. Not a Faata, not a Silmarri, but someone else, completely alien. Maybe a Llyano?.. But this issue was not the most urgent one. This incredible being, changing appearances as easily as gloves, capable of transporting anywhere on Earth, had appeared here with a specific goal in mind. What goal? It wasn't difficult to guess, as it did not much care for the Faata and the Silmarri, the stupid worms.

Hope lit up in Litvin's soul. Trying not to give away or spill it, he put his hands on the belt of the combat suit and said quietly, "I greet Emissary Gunther Voss. I assume you have an offer?"

"I most definitely do." Voss glanced at the brown mound that continued to shudder rhythmically at the center of the chamber and clarified. "How could I not?! You, Lieutenant Commander, turned out to be at the right place and the right time, and people like that can expect the most flattering offers. However…" He shifted his gaze to McNeil and Yo, who was holding on to her. "I would not want to burden these two lovely ladies with my presence. Unlike the Faata, I do not use psychic influence technology and am unable to put them to sleep or block their auditory receptors. Perhaps we should take a walk?" Voss nodded in the direction of one of the hallways.

Without a word, Litvin headed into it. The passage was wider than the burrow that had brought them to this chamber, and the nerve outgrowth in the floor turned out to be far wider, not an elephant's trunk, more like its leg. The contractions of the pinkish substance produced dim flashes of light, which were sufficient to be able to see the hallway for twenty meters in either direction, beyond which was a gloom stitched through with the nerve's pink string. Moving next to it, Litvin felt a familiar vibration twice; apparently, new modules were launching from the Ship's surface.

"This is far enough," Voss voice came from behind him. "No one will bother us here."

"Are you talking about Yo?" Litvin said, turning around.

"No. Just a figure of speech commonly used by journalists. When you're receiving information, there is no need for a third person."

"And when giving?"

"No need for anyone except the addressee."

Voss brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. Light glared off his face, and it seemed so ordinary, so Earthly, that Litvin had a momentary doubt that everything that was happening was real. They, a human and something that was only pretending to be human, stood in a narrow hallway above a nerve ganglion of a creature of a completely alien nature, an artificial brain that lived in a starship. They were as alien to one another as stars from opposite corners of the galaxy, but they were doing something completely human: planning a murder.

"I will transport a device here," Voss said. "Don't interfere and don't get close to the device until I explain. It's very dangerous."

"A weapon?"

"Something like that."

He stretched out and froze. Another breath of cold, a silent explosion shook the air, and something appeared five paces from Litvin, something gleaming, rounded, like a big pumpkin. The object shone with a bluish hue and was, obviously, massive, but there did not appear to be anything threatening about it. A long hose ending in a needle came down from the top.

Litvin took out the kaff bead, tossed it up in his palm.

"Is this your work too, emissary? You sent me this? Transported it, like this thing?"

"Naturally. You could have gotten more use out of it," Voss grunted, not looking away from the device. Suddenly, it started to hum, quietly and rhythmically, as if a swarm of bees was spinning inside it.

Litvin pointed at it.

"If that is a weapon, you should've sent it earlier. Before they vaporized half of the Third Fleet."

"I couldn't do it earlier. My powers are not limitless, and there are mass and distance restrictions. The kaff is light, but the sigga weighs a good hundred kilos."

"Sigga?"

"Using terms you would understand, a micro-robot generator. They are kind of like tiny parasites similar to insects, quick and extremely voracious… The sigga produces and programs the first batch, and then they replicate on their own, in the environment specified in the program. They can destroy stone, metal, plastic, organics, or, as in this case, this thing." Voss kicked at the pink outgrowth with the toe of his shoe. "They have an excellent sense of smell, they only eat what they're calibrated to, and the results of their metabolism are oxygen, nitrogen, carbon, and other stuff. When the food is all gone, their lives will end too, so the Antarctic is not under threat. We use these devices to eliminate waste."

"But in this case it's like a syringe full of poison, right?" Litvin asked.

"You're absolutely correct. Do you see this flexible proboscis? You need to insert it into the nerve substance and turn the ring at the base, where the proboscis is coming out of the container. That's it!"

"And after that your roaches will eat the Ship?"

"Only its brain. That quasi-mind you talked to using the kaff."

Litvin frowned. Something about this story bothered him, something caused suspicion. It all seemed far too simple and easy.

"Why not destroy everything? The brain, organics, metal, and plastic? This whole damned starship?"

"Because it is extremely valuable. You are going to get everything from it: interstellar drive, antigravs, and many other devices that you wouldn't have come up with on your own within the next century."

"Will we get the Faata too?" Litvin asked, looking at the rhythmically humming sigga. "The whole crew: the t'ho, and the fully sentient, and the women sleeping in t'hami?"

A shadow passed over the emissary's face.

"That is doubtful. I'm afraid, Lieutenant Commander, that everything alive aboard the Ship is doomed to die. I said 'you are going to get everything', but I did not mean you personally. You and Lieutenant McNeil will not even get a medal for bravery."

"So that's how it is! Why don't you want to do it yourself? Insert the needle and turn the ring? Afraid?"

"You understand correctly," Voss replied in a grumpy voice. "But I'm not human and am not required to risk my life for an alien race. A primitive, stubborn, and stupid one to boot! Unwilling to heed advice and warnings! You think I haven't tried to help? I bent over backwards, in all of my guises!" His face suddenly started to change, as if he was going through the pages of a book with the images of Liu Chang, Roy Bunch, and the others, of which there were at least a dozen. "But your government institutions are slow, your media are corrupt, your military leaders are dumb, and your business ogres think only of profit. Savagery and complete cretinism are your primary traits! Maybe I should have let the Faata deal with you… perhaps that would have been for the best… So it's not for you to reproach me! Take what I'm giving you, and act!"

"Thanks for that, at least," Litvin said humbly. "I wasn't really rebuking you, just trying to clarify the situation. For example, how will we die? Will the sigga still eat us? Your robot roaches?"

"No. They will die themselves after finishing off the brain and not touching a single molecule of carbon-based organics. But this Ship is almost alive, understand? It's controlled by the brain and the people connected to it, so I can't predict what will happen when the symbiosis is destroyed. The life support system will go offline; you will either suffocate or freeze to death… All the airlocks and means of transportation will be locked, so there won't be a way off the Ship… Or, just the opposite, the seal will break… Maybe it will activate the drives and leave the planet with acceleration that will kill everyone… Maybe it'll empty the holds of antimatter, start to transform the inner space, crushing the people with bulkheads. I don't know!"

"Looks like we won't get the Faata technology, merely its remains," Litvin spoke.

"Remains are better than nothing," Voss noted. "And much better than total enslavement."

"That is true," Litvin agreed, examining the sigga. "You have an original means of sewage disposal… So, you say, I should insert the proboscis with the needle and turn the ring?"

"Exactly."

Litvin was suddenly gripped by an unprecedented feeling of lightness. He didn't fear death, for it seemed an insignificant cost for the safety of his homeworld, even if it was populated by thick-headed and stubborn people, but it was the only world in the universe where he wanted to live. He also didn't regret that his sacrifice would remain unknown, that he would not be called a hero and no one would write songs about him; it was even fair that he would share the fate of his friends aboard the _Lark_ and those who had fought the Faata and died bravely. He was only upset about one thing: he really didn't want Abby McNeil, her unborn child, and the lovely fairy Yo to die with him.

He turned to Voss and said, "You're right, of course: it's not your responsibility to give your life for a bunch of savages. I will do everything, emissary, and I am grateful for your help. But, if it was up to me, I would…"

"Yes?"

"I would not kill the t'ho, only the Sheaf and those who are with it. The ones like Yo carry no guilt before us… just like the Ship… It is, after all, sentient, even if only 'quasi'."

"You can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs," Voss spoke. "As for the Ship and its mind… You've communicated with it through a high-bandwidth interface, one could even say you were thinking in unison. Do you not understand what it is?"

"It said it values emotions," Litvin thought after a moment. "I think it can not only think but feel… Strange for a computer!"

"It's not a computer. Or, if you will, not like a computer you're used to on Earth. This mind is capable of comprehending feelings, expressing them, experiencing joy and sorrow, happiness and horror, love and hate in all their fullness. A consciousness adds depth to feelings, and if you, like the Daskins, wanted to create a device that kept your emotions, you would have had to give it self-awareness and a mind. Like a mind, for it depends on emotions, which is completely unacceptable for a truly sentient being."

Litvin raised an eyebrow.

"Really? Occasionally, even humans let their feelings overcome reason."

"And you think that humans behave intelligently at those moments? They betray and lie, succumbing to greed and fear, vent their anger on the innocent, kill and maim out of hate, give up their lives due to trampled pride or unrequited passion… Of course, it's different," Voss pointed at the outgrowth pulsing at their feet. "An artificial nervous structure capable of thinking and solving various problems, but initially meant for something else, for telepathic communication and storing of emotions. Maybe the Daskins themselves valued them greatly… Who knows? Can't ask them anymore."

Voss turned and stepped back towards the chamber.

"Wait!" Litvin called out. "Let me just turn this thing on and—"

"No, don't rush." Voss quickly grabbed his hand. "No need to hurry, Lieutenant Commander, the reaction will be instant and, as I said, unpredictable. I need to get off the Ship, and this requires a certain effort. Although, I've rested a bit while talking to you… It's possible I may be able to take one of the women with me."

That was better, much better, Litvin thought, walking through the narrow hallway. The sigga behind him hummed quietly, and it seemed that a swarm of voracious robotic insects would come out of it any second now. The sound appeared to unnerve Voss; the emissary hastened his steps.

They returned to the chamber. McNeil and Yo sat side-by-side, so close that the red hair mixed with the dark.

"The emissary dug through his arsenal and found a weapon for us," Litvin informed them. "It's already here. Something like an ecological bomb; destroys the environment, but selectively rather than completely. All I have to do is pull the string."

"So pull it," McNeil said. "I trust we won't have to suffer long?"

Litvin glanced at Voss. The journalist's figure now looked like a statue, his face as if made of stone, think lips squeezed tightly. He was obviously preparing to depart.

"The emissary said that he can take one of you to a safe place. I think—" Litvin started, but Yo said it first.

"I am staying with you. I must stay!" she gently touched McNeil's belly. "It is better to save two lives than one."

"Then move away from her," Voss muttered through gritted teeth. "Farther, farther! I need space… Like that!"

A gust of cold passed through the compartment, and McNeil was gone. Voss turned to Yo.  
"I seem to be on a roll today, lovely lady. Perhaps I can repeat the trick."

He vanished into thin air with a quiet clap. Yo stood up, reached out to Litvin, but did not have time to touch him. A clap, a gust of icy wind, and she disappeared. Litvin was alone. Only a brown substance continued to pulsate at the center of the chamber, but he did not want of think of it as alive. Quasi-alive, maybe.

"It seems I've been given a gift," Litvin said, looking at the rhythmically pulsing mound. "Well, now it's just the two of us, pal, so let's settle our scores without any witnesses."

He took his time walking back to the passage. His heart was easy and light; with each step, he was leaving the world with his loved ones, Abby, Yo, the ancient fortress in Smolensk, the streets of his childhood, and the green riverbanks. He was departing his life, but was moving closer towards his fallen friends: Rodriguez, Corcoran, Chevreuse, Prizzi, and the others; and B.J. Cassidy, master after God, waited for him at the end of the path and was nodding approvingly, "Come on, Lieutenant Commander, do what needs to be done, and we'll meet you like an admiral, with an honor guard and a salute." "No need for salutes," Litvin replied, smiling, "I'll do one myself, the kind of salute that will shake the sky." It would be interesting to know what would happen after… He'd rather not suffocate or be crushed like a worm, he'd rather freeze to death, a noble and appropriate death for an astronaut. To burn would also be nice, but somewhere far away, beyond Luna; if this thing blew, there'd be nothing left from the Antarctic except a crater. And there really was no need for a giant hole at the pole…

Still chuckling, Litvin bent over the sigga, found the ring at the base of the proboscis, took the thin shiny needle, and listened. The humming in the container grew louder, as if the creatures living inside were trying to burst out like a pack of hungry wolves. The light coming out of the nerve outgrowth was strobe-like, blinking; the thick pink snake shuddered, expanding and contracting in a rapid, barely visible rhythm. Simultaneously with the flashes and shudders, something was knocking into Litvin's brain, trying to enter his mind with a frantic, desperate force. He kneeled, inserted the proboscis into the pink substance, and put his left hand on the ring. Then he pulled out the kaff, looked at the small sphere in thought, and put it near his temple.

It seemed as if a grenade exploded in his skull.

_No-no-no-no,_ the disembodied voice muttered in fear, _don't do this, don't, no need, no-no-no… master, symbiote… new master, don't do this, don't… all humans are symbiotes… better than Faata… open feelings, strong, clear… pride, hate, joy, love… don't do this… live, live!.. store, feel and obey, always obey… don't… no-no… master, owner, overlord… don't… no-no-no-no!.._

This call, this cry was terrible. Litvin's heart, so recently full of joy and sacrificial light, suddenly appeared to be in a dark inferno. He felt the desperation of the ancient monstrosity begging for mercy, its cowardly readiness to submit, and there was a devilish temptation in that; to become its new overlord, a new symbiote, a source of emotions, which would be paid for with power and might. The kind of power and might nobody had ever dreamed of on Earth.

_Don't do this, don't… no-no-no-no… no, master!.._

"You've made the choice too late," Litvin spoke, ripping the kaff from his temple. "You've been playing too long. I don't need you, beast! No one needs you."

He stood up from his knees and, with a quick movement of his fingers, turned the ring.


	18. Chapter 17

_This is a fan translation of _Invasion_ (Вторжение) by Mikhail Akhmanov, currently only available in Russian and, because of the author's passing in 2019, unlikely to ever be published in English. This is the first book in a six-book series called _Arrivals from the Dark_ (Пришедшие из мрака), which also has a six-book spin-off series called _Trevelyan's Mission_ (Миссия Тревельяна)._

_I claim no rights to the contents herein._

* * *

**Chapter 17**

Earth, Brussels

The office of the head of the _CosmoSpiegel_, on the forty-first floor of the Skyship high-rise, was crowded. Everyone in it, over a dozen department heads and senior staff, surrounded Pierre Angelotti, like moons around a giant planet many times their mass, gravity, and volume. Angelotti himself had left his chair and moved to the window, blocking a third of it with his enormous bulk. Sid Chapman, the editor-in-chief, supported him on the right, while Claude Parillaud, the head of advertising, did the same on the left; behind them, sweating from the effort, the boss was being pushed up by Peter Rourke and Ashley Kovacs, two hardened international journalists. The secretary Michelle was handing out coffee and ice martinis, and was glancing at the window in-between. At that, her pretty face wrinkled in fear.

"Hellstrom!" Angelotti bellowed. "Where are Hellstrom and Duke? I want this filmed! Immediately!"

Hellstrom was the _CosmoSpiegel_'s best photographer, a master of keen stories, and Duke was the cameraman who prepared issues of the journal for TV and the Ultranet. Both were Chapman's subordinates, and he, with a full awareness of his responsibility, assured his boss, "The footage is already prepared. Duke's brigade filmed from the roof, and Hellstrom from the helicopter. Excellent shots. We made them in the first twenty minutes."

"And this thing has been hovering above us for two hours now," Parillaud noted.

"Two and a quarter," LaGrange, the head of the newsroom, clarified.

The "thing" in question was an enormous craft of an unusual shape, hovering three hundred meters over the Brussels business district. Where it had come from and who it belonged to were not mysteries of the century; it had been over nine hours since the alien starship landed in the Antarctic. Based on what the news agencies were saying, there were over a hundred of these vessels hovering over the major cities of the world.

"Who do we have in Paris?" Angelotti asked.

"Montesi," Chapman replied.

"What about Moscow? Beijing? New York?"

"Dvorzhetsky in Moscow, Hope Gosset in Beijing, Dick Strauser in New York. Thirty six more people in other cities, even in that Icelandic hole… what do you call it?.. right, Reykjavik."

"Filming the Binucks?"

"Naturally. Our best diggers and photojournalists are everywhere."

Angelotti snorted in pleasure.

"Michelle! Vodka martini, my dear. Stirred, not shaken. And something… Would someone finally move my chair to the window! I'm tired of standing."

They moved the chair and helped the boss in it. Rourke and Kovacs sighed in relief.

"That Binuck looks like a big shoebox," LaGrange said.

"More like a jerrycan," Parillaud countered.

"What's a jerrycan?"

"A container for gasoline, Maurice. I still use it. I have a '22 Cadillac."

"Oh!.."

"Quit talking nonsense! Where's Gunther Voss? Where is that damned Gunther Voss?" Angelotti roared again.

Chapman shifted from one foot to another in confusion.

"Who knows, boss? He hasn't shown up in the past day and hasn't been answering his calls."

"'Who knows!'" Angelotti mocked him. "What do I pay you for, Chapman? You have to know everything!"

"Voss answers only to you," the editor-in-chief muttered. "At least that's what he believes."

Angelotti took a deep breath, about to bellow something else, but then Maurice LaGrange, a balanced and political man, bent down to his ear.

"Don't worry about Voss, boss. You know his style: he disappears for a few day, but digs up something sensational, and our circulation will jump to the skies."

Thinking about such a jump, the boss of the _Spiegel_ dreamily squinted and spoke slowly, "Well, not really the sky… At least to that Binuck jerrycan!"

He pointed at the window with his huge finger, and the alien machine shuddered, rocking in the air.

"Careful, boss," Kovacs said with a smile. "You never know–"

"Falling!" Michelle suddenly shrieked, dropping the tray with glasses. "It's falling!"

"Damn! It really is falling!" Parillaud exclaimed, recoiling deeper into the office. He tripped over the rug and barely managed to stay on his feet. "It's falling right on top of us!"

LaGrange grabbed his hand, "Don't be so skittish, Claude, you're not a little girl. It must be some maneuver."

The employees of the _Spiegel_ started talking over one another; Michelle crouched in terror behind the boss's chair. Angelotti, turning his thick neck and opening his mouth, stared at the window, looking at the huge machine descending from the sky.

"Madonna mia! By Christ's wounds! It doesn't look like a maneuver…" he began, and, at that moment, the craft, brushing the roof of Skyship Building, started to break apart in the air. The building shook, windows blew out with a clinking sound, cracks ran down the walls, concrete chunks fell from the ceiling, the houses on the opposite side of the street started to sink.

Michelle's terrified cry, the panicked screams, and the car horns were the last thing Pierre Angelotti heard. He did not hear the thunderclap of the explosion that turned the Brussels business district to rubble.


	19. Epilogue

_This is a fan translation of _Invasion_ (Вторжение) by Mikhail Akhmanov, currently only available in Russian and, because of the author's passing in 2019, unlikely to ever be published in English. This is the first book in a six-book series called _Arrivals from the Dark_ (Пришедшие из мрака), which also has a six-book spin-off series called _Trevelyan's Mission_ (Миссия Тревельяна)._

_I claim no rights to the contents herein._

* * *

**Epilogue**

Lunar Base, USF headquarters

Level twenty-one, area Zed

Transcript of the fifth debriefing of Lieutenant Commander Pavel Litvin.

Date: July 17, 2088, Earth time.

Clearance: Top secret.

Present: Admiral Orlando Chavez, CINC, First Fleet; Admiral Joseph Haley, CINC, Second Fleet; Rear Admiral Lev Potemkin, Doctor of Medicine, head of the USF research division.

Admiral Haley, the presiding officer: I hope you're rested, Lieutenant Commander. We haven't seen you in three days.

Lt Cdr Litvin: Yes, sir, fully rested. Thank you, sir.

Admiral Haley: Then let's continue our interview. (Turns to Chavez.) Admiral, you agreed to familiarize yourself with the Lieutenant Commander's report, which adds up the data and summarizes our previous meetings. What do you say?

Admiral Chavez: A detailed document, my colleagues. But the Lieutenant Commander was commendably brief regarding the main event; everything is described on one page. Besides that, there are also appendices. The fate of the _Lark_ and her crew – Appendix A, what happened to Lieutenants McNeil, Rodriguez, and Corcoran – Appendix B, conversations with the Ship's artificial brain and thoughts on its nature – Appendix C, information on the Bino Faata and the other galactic races – Appendix D. The text matches the transcripts of our conversations and the results of the studies being conducted in the Antarctic.

Lt Cdr Litvin: If you'll allow me, sir?

Admiral Haley: Yes, Lieutenant Commander. Ask.

Lt Cdr Litvin: I would like to know, sir, what happened to the quasi-mind and the Ship's crew? If you recall, I did not leave it on my own and did not have time–

Rear Admiral Potemkin: We will talk later about how you left it. As for this creature… this beast… this brain… No traces, Lieutenant Commander! Most likely, as Voss had assured you, it was completely destroyed and converted into gas. The experts tend to believe that. They found the device you described… sigga, I believe?.. Except it was an empty container.

Lt Cdr Litvin: How did the Faata die?

Rear Admiral Potemkin: Several causes. Some suffocated, others froze, yet others fell to their deaths in the gravlift shafts when the power supply was cut. The brains of those that you call of limited sentience were destroyed, at least among those who were connected to the Ship at the time. Those who were sleeping died when their life support equipment was shut off. The pregnant women… these ksa… Damn it! Do you really want to know the details, Lieutenant Commander?

Lt Cdr Litvin (hides his face in his hands): No… sorry, sir… probably not.

Admiral Haley: If you have no more questions, Lieutenant Commander, we will turn to the topic of today's conversation. We are interested in the identity of Gunther Voss, all the circumstances related to him, and the last several minutes of your presence on the Ship. First of all, tell us what happened to your companions: McNeil and the Faata woman.

Lt Cdr Litvin: Voss looked tired. He—

Rear Admiral Potemkin: A moment! Did he tell you that himself, or are you relaying your subjective impressions?

Lt Cdr Litvin: No, there were no statements to that effect from him. He said that he was able to teleport a large object, probably around one hundred kilograms, within the vicinity of Earth. But that gift of his depends on the distance and the object's mass, so he could only take one woman with him, Yo or McNeil. It seemed to me that, after the transportation, he was exhausted… He said he needed to rest… Then he transported McNeil, himself, and, finally, Yo, precisely in that order. I think that was the limit of his capabilities. McNeil and Yo are frail women and weigh less than a hundred kilograms put together.

Admiral Haley: But he took you as well.

Lt Cdr Litvin: I am not sure, sir, that it was him.

Admiral Chavez: You have an alternative hypothesis?

Lt Cdr Litvin: Yes. Of course, I am not ruling out that Voss was the one who rescued me. If not him, then, probably, the Ship. I don't know the reasons, it was a very unpredictable creature. Voss had said that its emotions overrode its reason, and, if that is true, then it… (turns away) could have shown mercy to its killer. But I am not certain that the Ship had Voss's abilities; at least, this never came up in our conversations. I believe… I think… well, there is a third hypothesis.

Admiral Haley: We are listening.

Lt Cdr Litvin: Voss called himself an emissary, an observer from a race unknown to us. Maybe there are other envoys? Even those Voss doesn't know? And one of them…

(Silence, thirty seconds.)

Rear Admiral Potemkin: Right now, we are unable to refute or accept any hypothesis. Only remember it.

(Another silence, eight seconds.)

Admiral Haley: That is what we'll do. Now tell us, what happened after your… hmm… extraction from the Ship.

Lt Cdr Litvin: I found myself in a dwelling. I know now that it was a building on the outskirts of Brussels… I assume it has already been examined?

Admiral Chavez: Yes. It is the home of Gunther Voss, the reporter from the _CosmoSpiegel_ magazine. Continue, Lieutenant Commander.

Lt Cdr Litvin: The only other people in the room were Yo and Lieutenant McNeil. I confirmed that both were in good health and stepped to the window. The glass, shattered by the shockwave, covered the floor and the windowsill, and there was a cloud of smoke above the city center. A result of a powerful explosion, but why? I was lost in conjecture. I didn't know then that the Faata battle modules had fallen on several cities and caused destruction and the deaths of people. I thought that it was an act of sabotage by some terrorist organization, maybe the Assassins. Using the chaos and the turmoil, they could have detonated a portable nuclear device… A T-16 or something like it…

Admiral Haley: Continue.

Lt Cdr Litvin: I decided that we were at least fifteen to twenty kilometers from the city center and were probably safe. McNeil had already turned on the computer… There was a computer, sir, and other devices used by reporters… The satellite connection was working, so I ordered McNeil to contact any USF base she could reach. In the meantime, Yo and I walked around the cottage, went down into the basement… I was looking for Voss, but he was not there. No one was there, except for the three of us. McNeil contacted the European base, and they came for us. Five hours later, we were on Luna, at a hospital. That is all.

Admiral Chavez: It is, unfortunately. Gunther Voss has disappeared, the other individuals you mentioned are also missing: the Chinese astronomer Liu Chang, the diplomat Umkhonto Tlume, and Lieutenant Roy Bunch. However, many were familiar with them, so they are not mythical personas. Perhaps, as you claim, he is one man or a being of extraterrestrial nature… But he does not wish to establish contact.

Lt Cdr Litvin: I cannot say anything on this subject, sir.

Admiral Haley: I think that's enough for today. Do you have any requests, Lieutenant Commander? Maybe the women? Yo, or Lieutenant McNeil? Is she being treated well as the hospital?

Lt Cdr Litvin: Yes, sir. Her parents and the late Lieutenant Corcoran's mother came. Everything is fine, sir, both with her and the child she is expecting. However, Lieutenant McNeil asked me to give Admiral Chavez her letter of resignation. For personal reasons… Here is the document.

(Gives the request to Admiral Chavez. The Admiral signs it.)

Rear Admiral Potemkin: Your personal circumstances have also changed. This Yo is a very attractive woman and holds a great value… The only member of the Faata race left alive… What do you intend to do, Lieutenant Commander?

Lt Cdr Litvin: Ask for leave, sir, and take her to my hometown of Smolensk. I hope she likes it there.

Admiral Chavez: What then? Do you also wish to resign?

Lt Cdr Litvin: No. I will serve, sir. What happened will change the world, change our lives; maybe for the best, maybe for the worst. After all, no one knows who will come to us from the darkness… I can't leave the service at a time like that. I've got to serve.


End file.
